This Large Print Edition
is published by kind permission of
COLLINS, LONDON & GLASGOW
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TAKEN
AT THE FLOOD
Complete and Unabridged
f%W^
5
ULVERSCROFT
Leicester
First published by Coliins in 1948
First Large Print Edition
published December 1971
SBN 85456 084 X
 Copyright Agatha Christie, 1948
This special large print edition is
made and printed in England for IF . A. Thorpe, Glenfield, Leicestershire
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
in every club ^-here 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.
cc! see they've got the announcement
of Gordon Cloade's death in the Times ^ he said. "Discreetly put, of course. On
Oct. yh, 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. I'm a Warden, you know. Cloade
had only just got back from the States.
He'd been over on that Government
Purchase business. Got married while he
was over there. A young widow--young
enough to be his daughter. Mrs. Underhay. As a matter of fact I knew her first
husband out in Nigeria."
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.
"Interesting," said Major Porter, firmly, his eyes fixed absently on a pair of extremely
pointed patent leather shoes--
a type of footwear of which he profoundly
disapproved. "As I said, I'm a
Warden. Funny business this blast. Never
know what it's going to do. Blew the basement
in and ripped off the roof. First floor
practically wasn't touched. Six people
in the house. Three servants, married
couple and a housemaid, Gordon Cloade,
his wife and the wife's brother. They
were all down in the basement except
the wife's brother--ex-Commando fellow
--he preferred his own comfortable bedroom
on the first floor--and by jove, he
escaped with a few bruises. The three
servants were all killed by blast--Gordon
Cloade was buried, they dug him out but
2
he died on the way to hospital. His wife
was suffering from blast, hadn't got a
stitch of clothing on her! but she was
alive. They think she'll pull through.
She'll be a rich widowGordon Cloade
must have been worth well over a million."
Again Major Porter paused. His eyes
had travelled up from the patent leather
shoesstriped trousersblack coateggshaped
head and colossal moustaches.
Foreign, of course! That explained the
shoes. "Really," thought Major Porter,
"what's the club coming to? Can't get
away from foreigners even here." 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 Porter's prejudice in
the slightest.
"She can't be more than about twentyfive,"
he went on. "And a widow for
the second time. Or at any ratethat's
what she thinks ..."
He paused, hoping for curiosityfor
comment. Not getting it, he nevertheless
went doggedly on:
"Matter of fact I've got my own ideas
about that. Queer business. As I told
you, I knew her first husband, Underhay.
Nice fellowdistrict commissioner in
Nigeria at one time. Absolutely dead keen
on his jobfirst-class chap. He married
this girl in Capetown. 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 spacesand breathed out, 'Wasn't
it wonderful?' and how she wanted "to
get away from everything.' Well, she
married him and got away from it. He was
very much in love, poor fellowbut the
thing didn't 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 a deux in the jungle wasn't at all
her cup of tea. Mind you, I never met
her myselfI 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 that I met him. He was all on
edge and in the mood when a man's got
4
to talk. He was a funny old-fashioned kind
of chap in some ways--an R.Q, and he
didn't care for divorce. He said to me,
"There are other ways of giving a woman
her freedom.5 'Now, look here, old boy,* I said, 'don't go doing anything foolish.
No woman in the world is worth putting
a bullet through your head.'
"He said that that wasn't his idea at
all. 'But I'm a lonely man,' he said. 'Got
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.' 'And what about you ?' I said.
'Well,' he said, 'maybe a Mr. Enoch
Arden will turn up somewhere a thousand
miles or so away and start life anew.'
'Might be awkward for her some day,' I
warned him. 'Oh, no,' he says, 'I'd play
the game. Robert Underhay would be
dead all right.'
"Well, I didn't 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 Underhay's writing saying they'd 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 is ... Maybe Underhay's
buried up country in the midst of equatorial
Africa but maybe he isn't--and if
he isn't 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. It's an interesting
story."
Major Porter looked round rather wistfully
for confirmation of this assertion. He
met two bored and fishy stares, the halfaverted
gaze of young Mr. Mellon
and the polite attention of M. Hercule
Poirot.
Then the newspaper rustled and a greyhaired
man with a singularly impassive
face rose quietly from his arm-chair by
the fire and went out.
Major Porter's jaw dropped, and young
Mr. Mellon gave a faint whistle.
"Now you've done it!" he remarked.
"Know who that was ?"
6
"God bless my soul," said Major Porter
in some agitation. "Of course. I don't
know him intimately but we are acquainted
. . . Jeremy Cloade, isn't it, Gordon Cloade's brother ? Upon my word, how extremely unfortunate! If I'd had
any idea--"
"He's a solicitor," said young Mr.
Mellon. "Bet he sues you for slander or
defamation of character or something."
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:
"Most unfortunate. Most unfortunate!"

"It will be all over Warmsley Heath by
this evening," said Mr. Mellon. "That's
where all the Cloades hang out. They'll
sit up late discussing what action to
take."
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.
"Terrible atmosphere, these clubs," he
7
said. "The most crashing collection of
old bores. Porter's 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!"
This was in the Autumn of 1944. It was
in late Spring, 1946, that Hercule Poirot
received a visit.
2
Hercule Poirot was sitting at his neat
writing-desk on a pleasant May morning
when his manservant George approached
him and murmured deferentially:
"There is a lady, sir, asking to see
you."
"What kind of a lady?" Poirot asked
cautiously.
He always enjoyed the meticulous accuracy
of George's descriptions.
"She would be aged between forty and
fifty, I should say, sir. Untidy and somewhat
artistic in appearance. Good walkingshoes,
brogues. A tweed coat and skirt--
but a lace blouse. Some questionable
Egyptian beads and a blue chiffon scarf."
8
Poirot shuddered slightly.
c(! do not think,53 he said, "that I wish
to see her."
"Shall I tell her, sir, that you are indisposed
?"
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
"You have already, I gather, told her
that I am engaged on important business
and cannot be disturbed ?"
George coughed again.
"She said, sir, that she had come up
from the country specially, and did not
mind how long she waited."
Poirot sighed.
"One should never struggle against the
inevitable," he said. "If 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."
George retreated, returning presently to
announce formally:
"Mrs. Cloade."
The figure in the worn tweeds and the
floating scarf came in with a beaming
face. She advanced to Poirot with an
9
y
outstretched hand, all her bead necklaces
swinging and clinking.
"M. Poirot," she said, "I have come to
you under spirit guidance.3i
Poirot blinked slightly.
"Indeed, Madame. Perhaps you will
take a seat and tell me--"
He got no further.
"Both 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 seance--
really 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 were--
a picture of you, and described, and an
account of what you had done. It is
wonderful, don't you think, M. Poirot,
10
how everything has a purpose? Clearly, you are the person appointed by the
Guides to elucidate this matter."
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.
"And what, Mrs.--Cloade--is that
right?" He frowned. "I seem to have
heard the name some time ago--"
She nodded vehemently.
"My poor brother-in-law--Gordon. Immensely
rich and often mentioned in the
press. He was killed in the Blitz over
a year ago--a great blow to all of us.
My husband is his younger brother. He
is a doctor. Dr. Lionel Cloade ... Of
course," she added, lowering her voice,
"he 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 Science
--but what I say is ... what is Science--
what can it do ?"
There seemed, to Hercule Poirot, to be
ii
no answer to the question other than
a meticulous and painstaking description
embracing Pasteur, Lister, Humphrey
Davy's safety lampthe 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 :
"In what way do you believe I can
help you, Mrs. Cloade ?"
"Do you believe in the reality of the
spirit world, M. Poirot ?"
"I am a good Catholic," said Poirot
cautiously.
Mrs. Cloade waved aside the Catholic
faith with a smile of pity.
"Blind! The Church is blindprejudiced,
foolishnot welcoming the reality
and beauty of the world that lies behind
this one.33
"At twelve o'clock," said Hercule Poirot,
"I have an important appointment."
It was a well-timed remark. Mrs. Cloade
leaned forward.
12
"I must come to the point at once.
Would it be possible for you, M. Poirot,
to find a missing person ?"
Poirot's eyebrow's rose.
"It might be possible--yes," he replied
cautiously. "But the police, my dear Mrs.
Cloade, could do so a great deal more
easily than I could. They have all the
necessary machinery."
Mrs. Cloade waved away the police as
she had waved away the Catholic Church.
"No, M. Poirot--it is to you I have
been guided--by those beyond the veil.
Now listen. My brother Gordon married
some weeks before his death, a young
widow--a Mrs. Underhay. Her first husband
(poor child, such a grief to her) was
reported dead in Africa. A mysterious
country--Africa."
"A mysterious continent," Poirot corrected
her. "Possibly. What part--"
She swept on.
"Central Africa. The home of voodoo, of the zhombie--"
"The zhombie is in the West Indies."
Mrs. Cloade swept on :
"--of black magic--of strange and secret
practices--a country where a man could
i3
disappear and never be heard of again."
"Possibly, possibly," said Poirot. "But
the same is true ofPiccadilly Circus."
Mrs. Cloade waved away Piccadilly
Circus.
"Twice 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
dead . . . We were puzzled, we knew no
Robert. Asking for further guidance we
got this. 'R. U. R.U. R.U.--then Tell R.
Tell R: 'Tell Robert?5 we asked. 'No, from Robert. R.U.' 'What does the U.
stand for?' Then, M. Poirot, the most
significant answer came. ^Little Boy Blue. Little Boy Blue. Ha ha ha r You see ?"
"No," said Poirot, "I do not."
She looked at him pityingly.
"The nursery rhyme Little Boy Blue. ''Under the Haycock fast asleep'--Under hay
--you see ?"
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.
14
"And my sister-in-law's name is Rosaleen,"
finished Mrs. Cloade triumphantly.
"You see? Confusing all these Rs. But
the meaning is quite plain. ^Tell Rosaleen
that Robert Underhay is not dead? "
"Aha, and did you tell her ?"
Mrs. Cloade looked slightly taken aback.
"Er--well--no. You see, I mean--
well, people are so sceptical. Rosaleen, I
am sure, would be so. And then, poor
child, it might upset her--wondering, you
know, where he was--and what he was
doing."
"Besides projecting his voice through
the ether? Quite so. A curious method, surely, of announcing his safety ?"
"Ah, 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 you--
surely, surely you will not refuse the
behest of the spiritual world."
Poirot looked at her reflectively.
15
"My fees," he said softly, "are very
expensive. I may say enormously expensive!
And the task you suggest would not
be easy."
"Oh dear--but surely--it is most unfortunate.
I and my husband are very
badly off--very badly off indeed. Actually
my own plight is worse than my dear
husband knows. I bought some shares--
under spirit guidance--and so far they
have proved very disappointing--in fact,
quite alarming. They have gone right
down and are now, I gather, practically
unsaleable.33
She looked at him with dismayed blue
eyes.
"I 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 wife--
it is such a noble mission--"
"Nobility, chore 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."
"But if he is found--if Captain Underhay
is found alive and well--then--well,
16
I think I may safely say that, once that was
accomplished, there--there would be no
difficulty about--er--reimbursing you.53
"Ah, he is rich, then, this Captain
Underhay ?"
"No. Well, no ... But I can assure you
--I can give you my word--that--that
the money situation will not present difficulties."

Slowly Poirot shook his head.
"I am sorry, Madame. The answer is
No."
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 Porter's suddenly dropped
jaw and expression of consternation.
But what worried him was trying to
make up his mind about the eager middle-
i7
aged lady who had just left him. The glib
spiritualistic patter, the vagueness, the
floating scarves, the chains and amulets
jingling round her neckand finally,
slightly at variance with all this, that
sudden shrewd glint in a pair of pale-blue
eyes.
"Just why exactly did she come to
me?55 he said to himself. "And what, I
wonder, has been going on in"he looked
down at the card on his desk"Warmsley
Vale r9
It was exactly five days later that he
saw a small paragraph in an evening paper
it referred to the death of a man called
Enoch Ardenat Warmsley Vale, a small
old-world village about three miles from
the popular Warmsley Heath Golf Course.
Hercule Poirot said to himself again:
cc! wonder what has been going on in
Warmsley Vale ..."
18
FR1;Book One
CHAPTER 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
left---to 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.
i9
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 jumper
--even 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 irk20
someness 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 cliche 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 same
--almost too much all the same--the house
and Mums and Rowley and the farm and
the family. The thing that was different
21
and that ought not to be different was
herself. . .
"Darling ..." Mrs. Marchmont's thin
cry came up the stairs. "Shall I bring
my girl a nice tray in bed ?"
Lynn called out sharply:
"Of course not. I'm coming down."
"And why," she thought, "has Mums
got to say 'my girl." It's so silly!"
She ran downstairs and entered the
dining-room. It was not a very good
breakfast. Already Lynn was realising 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 realised 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.
"Oh! brave new world," thought Lynn
grimly. Her eyes rested lightly on the
22
columns of the daily paper. "Ex-W.A.A.F.
seeks post where initiative and drive will
be appreciated" "Former W.R.E.N. seeks
post where organising ability and authority
are needed.^
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 didn't 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. Always 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 life--
not 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 been--Uncle Gordon had
always promised . . .
Mrs. Marchmont's voice broke in plaintively
opposite:
"It's been the most dreadful blow to
23
us all, Lynn darling, as I wrote you.
Gordon had only been in England two
days. We hadn't even seen him. If only he
hadn't stayed in London. If he'd come
straight down here."
"Yes, if only ..."
Far away, Lynn had been shocked and
grieved by the news of her uncle's 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 Rowley . . . 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.
"You can't 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 wouldn't
24
know thatmaybe for years. If they've
got the right stuff in them, if I'm satisfied
that their side of it is all right, well then,
Lynn, you needn't worry. I'll finance
them on the proper scale. So don't think
badly of your prospects, my girl. You're
just the wife Rowley needs. But keep
what I've told you under your hat."
Well, she had done that, but Rowley
himself had sensed his uncle's 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
25
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 Cloade's
wholly unexpected marriage.
"Of course, darling," Adela went on,
"we were all flabbergasted. If there was
one thing that seemed quite certain, it
was that Gordon would never marry again.
It wasn't, you see, as though he hadn't
got plenty of family ties."
Yes, thought Lynn, plenty of family.
Sometimes, possibly, rather too much
family ?
"He was so kind always," went on
Mrs. Marchmont. "Though 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."
"It certainly paid to fall in with his
26
wishes,35 said Lynn dryly. She added
with some curiosity, "How did he meet
this--second wife? You never told me in
your letters."
"Oh, 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."
Lynn smiled. Ever since she could
remember, Gordon Cloade's secretaries, housekeepers and office staff had been subjected
to the closest scrutiny and suspicion.
She asked curiously, "She's good-looking, I suppose ?"
"Well, dear," said Adela, "/ think
myself she has rather a silly face."
"You're not a man. Mums!"
"Of course," Mrs. Marchmont went on, "the poor girl was blitzed and had shock
from blast and was really frightfully ill
and all that, and it's my opinion she's
never really quite recovered. She's a mass
of nerves, if you know what I mean.
And really, sometimes, she looks quite
half-witted. I don't feel she could ever
have made much of a companion for poor
Gordon."
TAF2 27
Lynn smiled. She doubted whether
Gordon Cloade had chosen to marry a
woman years younger than himself for her
intellectual companionship.
"And then, dear," Mrs. Marchmont
lowered her voice, "I hate to say it, but
of course she's not a lady!"
"What an expression. Mums! What
does that matter nowadays ?"
"It still matters in the country, dear,"
said Adela placidly. "I simply mean that
she isn't exactly one of us Is9
"Poor little devil!"
"Really, Lynn, I don't know what you
mean. We have all been most careful to
be kind and polite and to welcome her
amongst us for Gordon's sake."
"She's at Furrowbank, then?" Lynn
asked curiously.
. "Yes, 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. She's at Furrowbank
with her brother."
"What's he like ?" Lynn asked.
"A dreadful young man!" Mrs. Marchmont
paused, and then added with a good
deal of intensity: ^Rude."
28
A momentary flicker of sympathy crossed
Lynn's mind. She thought: "I bet Pd be
rude in his place!"
She asked: "What's his name?"
"Hunter. David Hunter. Irish, I believe.
Of course they are not people one has
ever heard of. She was a widow--a Mrs.
Underhay. One doesn't wish to be uncharitable^ but one can't help asking oneself--what
kind of a widow would be
likely to be travelling about from South
America in wartime ? One can't help feeling, you know, that she was just looking for a rich husband."
"In which case, she didn't look in
vain," remarked Lynn.
Mrs. Marchmont sighed.
"It seems so extraordinary. Gordon
was such a shrewd man always. And it
wasn't, I mean, that women hadn't tried. That last secretary but one, for instance.
Really quite blatant. She was very efficient, I believe, but he had to get rid other."
Lynn said vaguely: "I suppose there's
always a Waterloo."
"Sixty-two," said Mrs. Marchmont. "A
very dangerous age. And a war, I imagine,
is unsettling. But I can't tell you what
29
a shock it was when we got his letter from
New York."
"What did it say exactly ?"
"He wrote to Frances--I really can't think why. Perhaps he imagined that
owing to her upbringing she might be more
sympathetic. He said that we'd 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, don't 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."
"Quite a well-known gambit," murmured
Lynn.
"Oh, I know. I do agree. One has
heard it so many times. But one would
really think that Gordon with all his
experience--still, there it is. She has the
most enormous eyes--dark blue and what
they call put in with a smutty finger."
"Attractive ?"
"Oh, yes, she is certainly very pretty. It's not the kind of prettiness / admire."
30
"It never is," said Lynn with a wry
smile.
"No, dear. Really, men--but well, there's
no accounting for men! Even the most
well-balanced of them do the most incredibly
foolish things! Gordon's letter
went on to say that we mustn't think for
a moment that this would mean any
loosening of old ties. He still considered
us all his special responsibility."
"But he didn't," said Lynn, "make a
will after his marriage ?"
Mrs. Marchmont shook her head.
"The last will he made was in 1940.
I don't 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
home--but there just wasn't time. He
was killed practically the day after he
landed in this country."
"And so she--Rosaleen--gets everything
?"
"Yes. The old will was invalidated by
his marriage."
Lynn was silent. She was not more
3i
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, "You'll be a rich
man when I die." To her mother he
had often said, "Don't worry, Adela. I'll
always look after Lynn--you know that, and I'd hate you to leave this house--it's
your home. Send all the bills for repairs
to me." Rowley he had encouraged to
take up farming. Antony, Jeremy's 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.
Lynn's thoughts were broken into.
Dramatically, and with a trembling lip,
32
Mrs. Marchmont produced a sheaf of bills.
"And look at all these," she wailed. "What am I to do? What on earth am I
to do, Lynn? The bank manager wrote
me only this morning that I'm overdrawn.
I don't see how I can be. I've been so
careful. But it seems my investments
just aren't producing what they used to.
Increased taxation, he says. And all these
yellow things. War Damage Insurance or
something--one has to pay them whether
one wants to or not."
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
boiler--a new main water pipe. They
amounted to a considerable sum.
Mrs. Marchmont said piteously:
"I suppose I ought to move from here.
But where could I go ? There isn't a small
house anywhere--there just isn't such a
thing. Oh, I don't want to worry you
with all this, Lynn. Not just as soon as
you've come home. But I don't know what
to do. I really don't."
Lynn looked at her mother. She was
33
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.3 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:
"Couldn't this Rosaleenhelp ?"
Mrs. Marchmont flushed.
"We've no right to anythinganything
at all."
Lynn demurred.
"I think you've a moral right. Uncle
Gordon always helped."
Mrs. Marchmont shook her head. She
said:
"It wouldn't be very nice, dear, to ask
favoursnot of someone one doesn't like
very much. And anyway that brother of
hers would never let her give away a penny!"
And she added, heroism giving place to
pure female cattiness: "If he really is
her brother, that is to say!"
34
CHAPTER II
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 make-up 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 agonised
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 performance--but her
35
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 Edward's final
bankruptcy was realised 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
36
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 father's 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 Jeremy's 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 judgment--but 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. "A dry stick" was what people
said about Jeremy. His reputation both
37
as a man and a lawyer was very high.
Cloade, Bmnskill 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 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:
"Excellent, Edna."
Edna went crimson with pleasure and
went out marvelling nevertheless at what
some people liked. Coffee, in Edna's
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 Lynn's 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
Antony's 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
Jeremy's reserves and he hers. Even when
the telegram had come announcing Antony's
death on active service, they had
neither of them broken down.
He had opened it, then he had looked
39
up at her. She had said, "Is it--?"
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: "I wish
I could help you, my dear." And she
had answered, her voice steady, her tears
unshed, conscious only of the terrible
emptiness and aching: "It's just as bad
for you." He had patted her shoulder:
"Yes," he said. "Yes ..." Then he had
moved towards the door, walking a little
awry, yet stiffly, suddenly an old man ...
saying as he did so, "There's nothing to
be said--nothing to be said ..."
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 her--some ordinary
common kindness had dried up. She was
more efficient, more energetic than ever--
people became sometimes a little afraid
of her ruthless common sense . . .
Jeremy Cloade's finger moved along his
upper lip again--irresolutely, searching.
40
And crisply, across the room, Frances
spoke.
"Is anything the matter, Jeremy ?"
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.
"What do you mean, Frances ?33 "I'm asking you if anything is the
matter ?"
"What should be the matter ?"
"It would be foolish to guess. I would
rather you told me."
She spoke without emotion in a businesslike
way.
He said unconvincingly:
"There is nothing the matter--"
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 didn't doubt
what she had seen.
She said quietly and unemotionally:
41
"I think you had better tell me--"
He sighed--a deep unhappy sigh.
"You will have to know, of course,55 he
said, "sooner or later.53
And he added what was to her a very
astonishing phrase.
"I'm afraid you've made a bad bargain,
Frances."
She went right past an implication she
did not understand to attack hard facts.
"What is it," she said, "money?"
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 concealing--
his colour had been bad lately, and he
had been overworked and overtired. But
nevertheless Frances's instinct went towards
money, and it seemed she was right.
Her husband nodded.
"I see." She was silent a moment, thinking. She herself did not really care
42
about money at all--but she knew that
Jeremy was quite incapable of realising
that. Money meant to him a foursquare
world--stability--obligations--a definite
place and status in life.
Money to her was a toy tossed into
one's 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 wouldn't give
credit and Lord Edward had been forced
to ignominious straits to avoid the bailiffs
on the front-door step. 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
one's friends and relations for a bit. Or
somebody tided you over with a loan . . .
But looking across at her husband
Frances realised that in the Cloade world
43
you didn't do that kind of thing. You didn't
beg or borrow or live on other people.
(And conversely you didn't 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.
"Shall we have to sell up everything?
Is the firm going smash ?"
Jeremy Cloade winced, and she realised
she had been too matter-of-fact.
"My dear," she said gently, "do tell
me. I can't go on guessing.M
Cloade said stiffly, "We 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 Singapore"
She interrupted him.
"Never mind the whysthey are so
unimportant. You were in a jam. And
you haven't been able to snap out of it ?"
He said, "I relied on Gordon. Gordon
would have put things straight."
She gave a quick impatient sigh.
44
"Of course. I don't want to blame
the poor man--after all, it's only human
nature to lose your head about a pretty
woman. And why on earth shouldn't he
marry again if he wanted to ? But it was
unfortunate his being killed in that air
raid before he'd 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 you're
in, that you yourself are going to be
killed. The bomb is always going to hit
the other person!"
"Apart from his loss, and I was very
fond of Gordon--and proud of him too," said Gordon Cloade's elder brother, "his
death was a catastrophe for me. It came
at a moment--"
He stopped.
"Shall we be bankrupt ?" Frances asked
with intelligent interest.
Jeremy Cloade looked at her almost
despairingly. Though she did not realise
it, he could have coped much better with
tears and alarm. This cool detached practical
interest defeated him utterly.
He said harshly, "It's a good deal worse
than that..."
45
He watched her as she sat quite still,
thinking over that. He said to himself,
"In another minute I shall have to tell
her. She'll know what I am ... She'll
have to know. Perhaps she won't believe
it at first."
Frances Cloade sighed and sat up
straight in her big armchair.
"I see," she said. "Embezzlement. Or
if that isn't the right word, that kind of
thing . . . Like young Williams."
"Yes, but this timeyou don't understandPm
responsible. I've used trust
funds that were committed to my charge.
So far, I've covered my tracks"
"But now it's all going to come out ?"
"Unless I can get the necessary money
quickly."
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.
"It's so stupid," she said, "that I
haven't got any money of my own at
all ... "
46
He said stiffly, "There is your marriage
settlement, but--"
She said absently, "But I suppose that's
gone too."
He was silent. Then he said with difficulty, in his dry voice: "I'm sorry, Frances.
More sorry than I can say. You made a
bad bargain."
She looked up sharply.
"You said that before. What do you
mean by that ?"
Jeremy said stiffly:
"When you were good enough to marry
me, you had the right to expect--well, integrity--:and a life free from sordid
anxieties."
She was looking at him with complete
astonishment.
"Really, Jeremy! What on earth do you
think I married you for ?"
He smiled slightly.
"You have always been a most loyal
and devoted wife, my dear. But I can
hardly natter myself that you would have
accepted me in--er--different circumstances."

She stared at him and suddenly burst
out laughing.
47
"You funny old stick! What a wonderful
novelettish mind you must have behind
that legal facade! Do you really think
that I married you'as the price of saving
Father from the wolves--or the Stewards
of the Jockey Club, et cetera ?"
"You were very fond of your father, Frances."
"I 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 I'd sell myself
to the family solicitor in order to save
him from getting what was always coming
to him, then you've never understood
the first thing about me. Never!33
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 one's own? A romantic
mind, of course, well camouflaged, but
essentially romantic. She thought: "All
those old Stanley Weymans in his bedroom.
I might have known from them\ The poor idiotic darling!"
Aloud she said:
48
"I married you because I was in love
with you, of course."
"In love with me ? But what could you
see in me ?"
"If you ask me that, Jeremy, I really
don't know. You were such a change so
different from all Father's crowd. You
never talked about horses for one thing.
You've no idea how sick I was of horses
and what the odds were likely to be for
the Newmarket Cup! You came to dinner
one nightdo you remember?and I
sat next to you and asked you what
bimetallism was, and you told mereally
told me! It took the whole of dinner
six courseswe were in funds at the
moment and had a French chef!35
"It must have been extremely boring,"
said Jeremy.
"It 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 I'd make you notice
me."
Jeremy Cloade said grimly: "I noticed
you all right. I went home that evening
49
and didn't sleep a wink. You had a blue
dress with cornflowers ..."
There was silence for a moment or two, then Jeremy cleared his throat.
"Er--all that is a long time ago . . . "
She came quickly to the rescue of his
embarrassment.
"And we're now a middle-aged married
couple in difficulties, looking for the best
way out."
"After what you've just told me, Frances, it makes it a thousand times worse that
this--this disgrace--"
She interrupted him.
"Let us please get things clear. You
are being apologetic because you've fallen
foul of the law. You may be prosecuted
--go to prison." (He winced.) "I don't
want that to happen. I'll fight like anything
to stop it, but don't credit me with moral
indignation. We're not a moral family, remember. Father, in spite of his attractiveness, was a bit of a crook. And there
was Charles--my cousin. They hushed
it up and he wasn't prosecuted, and
they hustled him off to the Colonies.
And there was my cousin Gerald--he forged a cheque at Oxford. But he went to
50
fight and got a posthumous V.C. for
complete bravery and devotion to his
men and superhuman endurance. What
I'm trying to say is people are like that--
not quite bad or quite good. I don't
suppose I'm particularly straight myself--
I have been because there hasn't been any
temptation to be otherwise. But what I
have got is plenty of courage and" (she
smiled at him) "I'm loyal\"
"My dear!" He got up and came over
to her. He stooped and put his lips to
her hair.
"And now," said Lord Edward Trenton's
daughter, smiling up at him, "what
are we going to do? Raise money somehow
?"
Jeremy's face stiffened.
"I don't see how."
"A mortgage on this house. Oh, I see,"
she was quick, "that's been done. I'm
stupid. Of course you've done all the
obvious things. It's a question then, of a touch? Who can we touch? I suppose
there's only one possibility. Gordon's
widow--the dark Rosaleen!"
Jeremy shook his head dubiously.
"It would have to be a large sum . . .
51
And it can't come out of capital. The
money's only in trust for her for her life."
(c! hadn't realised that. I thought she
had it absolutely. What happens when
she dies ?"
"It comes to Gordon's next of kin.
That is to say it is divided between
myself, Lionel, Adela, and Maurice's son,
Rowley."
"It comes to us . . . " said Frances
slowly.
Something seemed to pass through the
rooma cold airthe shadow of a thought
  
Frances said: "You didn't tell me that
... I thought she got it for keepsthat
she could leave it to any one she liked ?"
"No. By the statute relating to intestacy
of 1925 . . . "
It is doubtful whether Frances listened
to his explanation. She said when his
voice stopped:
"It hardly matters to us personally.
We'll be dead and buried, long before
she's middle-aged. How old is she?
Twenty-fivetwenty-six? She'll probably
live to be seventy."
Jeremy Cloade said doubtfully:
52
"We might ask her for a loanputting
it on family grounds? She may be a
generous-minded girlreally we know so
little of her"
Frances said: "At any rate we have
been reasonably nice to hernot catty
like Adela. She might respond.33
Her husband said warningly:
"There must be no hint oferreal
urgency."
Frances said impatiently: "Of course
not! The trouble is that it's not the girl
herself we shall have to deal with. She's
completely under the thumb of that brother
of hers."
"A very unattractive young man," said
Jeremy Cloade.
Frances sudden smile flashed out.
"Oh, no," she said. "He's attractive.
Most attractive. Rather unscrupulous, too,
I should imagine. But then as far as
that goes, Pm unscrupulous too!"
Her smile hardened. She looked up at
her husband.
"We're not going to be beaten, Jeremy,"
she said. "There's bound to be some way
... if I have to rob a bank!"
53
CHAPTER III
"money!" 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.
"Yes," he said, "everything seems to
boil down to money these days."
"But I thought farmers had done so
well during the war ?"
"Oh, yes--but that doesn't do you
any permanent good. In a year we'll
be back where we were--with 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."
"And now--" Lynn asked.
Rowley grinned.
"And now Mrs. Gordon goes to London
and spends a couple of thousand on a nice
mink coat."
54
"It's--it's wicked!"
"Oh, no--" He paused and said: "I'd
rather like to give you a mink coat, Lynn--"
"What's she like, Rowley ?" She wanted
to get a contemporary judgment.
"You'll see her to-night. At Uncle
Lionel's and Aunt Kathie's party."
"Yes, I know. But I want you to tell
me. Mums says she's half-witted ?"
Rowley considered.
"Well--I shouldn't say intellect was her
strong point. But I think really she only
seems half-witted because she's being so
frightfully careful."
"Careful ? Careful about what ?"
"Oh, just careful. Mainly, I imagine,
about her accent--she's got quite a brogue, you know, or else about the right fork, and any literary allusions that might be
flying around."
"Then she really is--quite--well, uneducated
?"
Rowley grinned.
"Oh, she's not a lady, if that's what
you mean. She's got lovely eyes, and a
very good complexion--and I suppose old
Gordon fell for that, with her extra55
ordinary air of being quite unsophisticated.
I don't think it's put onthough of course
you never know. She just stands around
looking dumb and letting David run her."
"David ?"
"That's the brother. I should say there's
nothing much about sharp practice he
doesn't know!" Rowley added: "He doesn't
like any of us much."
"Why should he?" said Lynn sharply,
and added as he looked at her, slightly
surprised, "I mean you don't like him."
"I certainly don't. You won't either.
He's not our sort."
"You don't know who I like, Rowley,
or who I don't! I've seen a lot of the
world in the last three years. II think
my outlook has broadened."
"You've seen more of the world than
I have, that's true."
He said it quietlybut Lynn looked up
sharply.
There had been somethingbehind
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.
56
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 once--
in 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-fromthe-wars, and here was Rowley Stay-at-home.
She wondered, suddenly, if he minded
. . .
She gave a nervous little half laugh. "Things seem sometimes a bit upside
down, don't they ?"
- "Oh, I don't know." Rowley stared
vacantly out over the countryside. "Depends."

"Rowley," she hesitated, "did you mind
--I mean--Johnnie--"
57
His cold level gaze threw her back on
herself.
"Let's leave Johnnie out of it! The
war's overand I've been lucky."
"Lucky, you mean"she paused doubtfully"not
to have had toto go ?"
"Wonderful luck, don't you think so ?"
She didn't know quite how to take that.
His voice was smooth with hard edges.
He added with a smile, "But, of course,
you service girls will find it hard to settle
down at home."
She said irritably, "Oh, don't be stupid,
Rowley."
(But why be irritable? Whyunless
because his words touched a raw nerve
of truth somewhere.)
"Oh well," said Rowley. "I suppose
we might as well consider getting married.
Unless you've changed your mind ?"
"Of course I haven't changed my mind.
Why should I ?"
c
He said vaguely:
"One never knows."
"You mean you think I'm"Lynn
paused"different ?"
"Not particularly."
"Perhaps you've changed your mind ?"
58
"Oh, no, Pve not changed. Very little
changes down on the farm, you know."
"All right, then," said Lynn--conscious, somehow, of anti-climax, "let's get married.
Whenever you like ?"
"June or thereabouts ?"
"Yes."
They were silent. It was settled. In
spite of herself, Lynn felt terribly depressed.
Yet Rowley was Rowley--just 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 much--so 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 gang planks being
pulled up, the racing of a ship's 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,

TAF3
59

and garlic--the clatter and gabble of
foreign tongues. Strange flowers, red poinsettias
rising proudly from a dusty garden
. . . Packing, unpacking--where next ?
All that was over. The war was over.
Lynn Marchmont had come home. Home
is the sailor, home from the sea . . . But
I'm not the same Lynn who went away, she thought.
She looked up and saw Rowley watching
her . . .
60
CHAPTER IV
aunt kathie's 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 guests--but they were conscious
of his courtesy being an effort.
In appearance Lionel Cloade was not
unlike his brother Jeremy. He was spare
and grey-haired--but he had not the
lawyer's imperturbability. His manner was
brusque and impatient--and 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 wife's
vagaries.
Though Lynn and Rowley always called
Mrs. Jeremy Cloade "Frances," Mrs.
Lionel Cloade was invariably "Aunt
61
Kathie.5' They were fond of her but
found her rather ridiculous.
This "party," arranged ostensibly to
celebrate Lynn's homecoming, was merely
a family affair.
Aunt Kathie greeted her niece affectionately:

"So 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, don't you think ?"
Lynn was saved from replying by the
entrance of Mrs. Gordon Cloade and her
brother David.
"This is my niece, Lynn Marchmont, Rosaleen.35
Lynn looked at Gordon Cloade's 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 finger--half-parted
lips.
The rest of her was predominantly
expensive. Dress, jewels, manicured hands,
62
fur cape. Quite a good figure, but she
didn't, really, know how to wear expensive
clothes. Didn't 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.)
"How do you do," said Rosaleen Cloade.
She turned hesitatingly to the man
behind her.
She said: "Thisthis is my brother."
"How do you do," 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 couldn't depend upon. Men who
made their own laws and flouted the
universe. Men who were worth their weight
in gold in a pushand who drove their
C.O.s to distraction out of the firing line!
Lynn said conversationally to Rosaleen:
"And how do you like living at Furrowbank
?"
"I
think it's a wonderful house," said
Rosaleen.
63
David Hunter gave a faint sneering
laugh.
"Poor old Gordon did himself well," he said. "No expense spared."
It was literally the truth. When Gordon
had decided to settle down in Warmsley
Vale--or 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 people's 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, it's 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 Rosaleen's,
"It's a wonderful house." David's laugh
made her flush.
"You're the returned Wren, aren't
you ?" said David to Lynn.
"Yes."
His eyes swept over her appraisingly--
and for some reason she flushed.
64
Aunt Katherine appeared again suddenly.
She had a trick of seeming to materialise
out of space. Perhaps she had caught
the trick of it from many of the spiritualistic
seances she attended.
"Supper," she said, rather breathlessly,
and added, parenthetically, "I think it's
better than calling it dinner. People don't expect so much. Everything's very difficult, isn't it? Mary Lewis tells me she
slips the fishman ten shillings every other
week. / think that's immoral."
Dr. Lionel Cloade was giving his irritable
nervous laugh as he talked to Frances
Cloade. "Oh, come, Frances," he said. "You can't expect me to believe you
really think that--let's go in."
They went into the shabby and rather
ugly dining-room. Jeremy and Frances, Lionel and Katherine, Adela, Lynn and
Rowley. A family party of Cloades--with
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 David--David was the outlaw.
By necessity, but also by choice, Lynn
65
was thinking these things as she took
her place at the table.
There were waves in the air of feeling
--a strong electrical current of--what was
it ? Hate ? Could it really be hate ?
Something at any rate--destructive.
Lynn thought suddenly, "But that's
what's the matter everywhere. I've noticed
it ever since I got home. It's the aftermath
war has left. Ill will. Ill feeling.
It's 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 it's more than that.
Here it's particular. It's meantV
And she thought, shocked: "Do we
hate them so much? These strangers
who have taken what we think is ours ?"
And then--"No, not yet. We might--
but not yet. No, it's they who hate us."
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: "Thinking out something?"

His voice was quite pleasant, slightly
66
amused, but she felt conscience-stricken.
He might think that she was going out
of her way to be ill-mannered.
She said, "I'm sorry. I was having
thoughts about the state of the world."
David said coolly, "How extremely unoriginal!"

"Yes, it is rather. We are all so earnest
nowadays. And it doesn't seem to do much
good either."
"It is usually more practical to wish
to do harm. We've thought up one or
two rather practical gadgets in that line
during the last few years--including that piece de resistance, the Atom Bomb."
"That was what I was thinking about
--oh, I don't mean the Atom Bomb. I
meant ill will. Definite practical ill will."
David said calmly:
"111 will certainly--but I rather take
issue to the word practical. They were
more practical about it in the Middle
Ages."
"How do you mean ?"
"Black magic generally. Ill wishing.
Wax figures. Spells at the turn of the
moon. Killing off your neighbour's cattle.
Killing off your neighbour himself."
67
"You don't really believe there was
such a thing as black magic ?" asked Lynn
incredulously.
"Perhaps not. But at any rate people
did try hard. Nowadays, well" He
shrugged his shoulders. "With all the
ill will in the world you and your family
can't do much about Rosaleen and myself,
can you ?"
Lynn's head went back with a jerk.
Suddenly she was enjoying herself.
"It's a little late in the day for that,"
she said politely.
David Hunter laughed. He, too, sounded
as though he were enjoying himself.
"Meaning we've got away with the
booty? Yes, we're sitting pretty all right."
"And you get a kick out of it!"
"Out of having a lot of money? I'll
say we do."
"I didn't mean only the money. I meant
out of us."
"Out of having scored off you ? Well,
perhaps. You'd all have been pretty smug
and complacent about the old boy's cash.
Looked upon it as practically in your
pockets already."
Lynn said:
68
"You must remember that we'd been
taught to think so for years. Taught not
to save, not to think of the future--
encouraged to go ahead with all sorts of
schemes and projects."
(Rowley, she thought, Rowley and the
farm.)
"Only one thing, in fact, that you
hadn't learnt," said David pleasantly.
"What's that ?"
"That nothing's safe."
"Lynn," cried Aunt Katherine, leaning
forward from the head of the table, "one
of Mrs. Lester's controls is a fourth
dynasty priest. He's told us such wonderful
things. You and I, Lynn, must have a
long talk. Egypt, I feel, must have affected
you physically."
Dr. Cloade said sharply:
"Lynn's had better things to do than
play about with all this superstitious tomfoolery."

"You are so biased, Lionel," said his
wife.
Lynn smiled at her aunt--then sat silent
with the refrain of the words David had
spoken swimming in her brain.
"Nothing's safe ..."
69
There were people who lived in such
a world--people to whom everything was
dangerous. David Hunter was such a
person ... It was not the world that Lynn
had been brought up in--but it was a
world that held attractions for her nevertheless.

David said presently in the same low
amused voice:
"Are we still on speaking terms ?"
"Oh, yes."
"Good. And do you still grudge Rosaleen
and myself our ill-gotten access to
wealth ?"
"Yes," said Lynn with spirit.
"Splendid. What are you going to do
about it ?"
"Buy some wax and practise black
magic!"
He laughed.
"Oh, no, you won't do that. You aren't
one of those who rely on old outmoded
methods. Your methods will be modern
and probably very efficient. But you won't
win."
"What makes you think there is going
to be a fight ? Haven't we all accepted the
inevitable ?"
70
"You all behave beautifully. It is very
amusing.35
"Why," said Lynn, in a low tone, "do
you hate us ?"
Something flickered in those dark unfathomable
eyes.
"I couldn't possibly make you understand."

"I think you could," said Lynn.
David was silent for a moment or two, then he asked in a light conversational
tone:
"Why are you going to marry Rowley
Cloade?He's an oaf."
She said sharply:
"You know nothing about it--or about
him. You couldn't begin to know!"
Without any air of changing the conversation
David asked:
"What do you think of Rosaleen ?"
"She's very lovely."
"What else ?"
"She doesn't seem to be enjoying herself."

"Quite right," said David, "Rosaleen's
rather stupid. She's scared. She always
has been rather scared. She drifts into
things and then doesn't know what it's
7i
all about. Shall I tell you about Rosaleen ?35 "If you like,53 said Lynn politely.
cc! do like. She started by being stagestruck
and drifted on to the stage. She
wasn't 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 didn't like Nigeria
--and I don't think she liked her husband
much. If he'd 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
didn't like South America very much,
so she drifted on to another boat and
72
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
ft*
income."
"It's nice that the story has such a
happy ending," said Lynn.
"Yes," said David Hunter. "Possessing
no intellect at all, Rosaleen has always
been a lucky girl--which 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 wouldn't have been
much fun for Rosaleen, would it? She
was twenty-four when she married him.
She's only twenty-six now."
"She looks even younger," said Lynn.
David looked across the table. Rosaleen
Cloade was crumbling her bread. She
looked like a nervous child.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "She does.
Complete absence of thought, I suppose."

"Poor thing," said Lynn suddenly.
David frowned.
73
"Why the pity ?" he said sharply. "J7/
look after Rosaleen."
"I expect you will.53
He scowled.
"Any one who tries to do down Rosaleen
has got me to deal with! And I know a
good many ways of making war--some of
them not strictly orthodox."
"Am I going to hear your life history
now ?" asked Lynn coldly.
"A very abridged edition." He smiled.
"When the war broke out I saw no reason
why I should fight for England. I'm
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 Rosaleen's
wire from New York saying she was
getting married! She didn't actually announce
that there would be pickings, but
I'm 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 now"--he smiled insolently
at her--"Home is the sailor, home from the
74
sea. That's you! And the Hunter home from
the Hill. What's the matter ?"
"Nothing," said Lynn.
She got up with the others. As they
went into the drawing-room, Rowley said
to her: "You seemed to be getting on
quite well with David Hunter. What were
you talking about ?"
"Nothing particular," said Lynn.
75
CHAPTER V
"david, when are we going back to
London ? When are we going to America ?"
Across the breakfast table, David Hunter
gave Rosaleen a quick surprised glance.
"There's no hurry, is there? What's
wrong with this place ?"
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:
"You said we'd go to America--soon.
As soon as it could be managed."
"Yes--but actually it isn't managed so
easily. There's priority. Neither you nor
I have any business reasons to put forward.
Things are always difficult after a war."
He felt faintly irritated with himself
76
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: "You said we'd
only be here for a short time. You didn't
say we were going to live here."
"What's wrong with Warmsley Vale
and Furrowbank ? Come now ?"
"Nothing. It's thema!}, of them!"
"The Cloades ?"
"Yes."
"That's just what I get a kick out of,"
said David. "I like seeing their smug
faces eaten up with envy and malice. Don't
grudge me my fun, Rosaleen."
She said in a low troubled voice:
"I wish you didn't feel like that. I
don't like it."
"Have some spirit, girl. We've been
pushed around enough, you and I. The
Cloades have lived softsoft. Lived on
big brother Gordon. Little fleas on a
big flea. I hate their kindI always
have."
She said, shocked:
77
"I don't like hating people. It's wicked."
"Don't you think they hate you? Have
they been kind to youfriendly ?"
She said doubtfully:
"They haven't been unkind. They
haven't done me any harm."
"But they'd like to, babyface. They'd
like to." He laughed recklessly. "If they
weren't so careful of their own skins,
you'd be found with a knife in your back
one fine morning."
She shivered.
"Don't say such dreadful things."
"Wellperhaps not a knife. Strychnine
in the soup."
She stared at him, her mouth tremulous.
"You're joking ..."
He became serious again.
"Don't worry, Rosaleen. I'll look after
you. They've got me to deal with."
She said, stumbling over the words, "If
it's true what you sayabout their hating
ushating mewhy don't we go to London
?
We'd be safe thereaway from them
all."
"The country's good for you, my girl.
You know it makes you ill being in
London."
78
"That was when the bombs were there
the bombs." She shivered, closed her
eyes. "I'll never forgetnever ..."
"Yes, you will." He took her gently
by the shoulders, shook her slightly.
"Snap out of it, Rosaleen. You were
badly shocked, but it's over now. There
are no more bombs. Don't think about
it. Don't remember. The doctor said
country air and a country life for a long
time to come. That's why I want to keep
you away from London."
"Is that really why? Is it, David? I
thoughtperhaps"
"What did you think ?"
Rosaleen said slowly:
"I thought perhaps it was because of
her you wanted to be here ..."
"Her ?"
"You know the one I mean. The girl
the other night. The one who was in the
Wrens."
His face was suddenly black and stern.
"Lynn? Lynn Marchmont."
"She means something to you, David."
"Lynn Marchmont? She's Rowley's
girl. Good old stay-at-home Rowley. That
bovine slow-witted good-looking ox."
79
"I watched you talking to her the other
night."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Rosaleen."
"And you've seen her since, haven't you?33
"I met her near the farm the other
morning when I was out riding."
"And you'll meet her again."
"Of course I'll always be meeting her!
This is a tiny place. You can't go two
steps without falling over a Cloade. But
if you think I've fallen for Lynn Marchmont,
you're wrong. She's a proud stuckup
unpleasant girl without a civil tongue
in her head. I wish old Rowley joy of
her. No, Rosaleen, my girl, she's not
my type."
She said doubtfully, "Are you sure,
David ?"
"Of course I'm sure."
She said half-timidly:
"I know you don't like my laying out
the cards . . . But they come true, they
do indeed. There was a girl bringing
trouble and sorrow--a 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, and--"
80
"You and your dark strangers?!" David
laughed. "What a mass of superstition
you are. Don't have any dealings with
a dark stranger, that's my advice to you."
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:
"Bad luck to you, Lynn. Coming home
from abroad and upsetting the apple
cart."
For he realised that at this very moment
he was deliberately making a course on
which he might hope to meet the girl he
had just apostrophised 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 that--she 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
81
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 Lynn's attitude had unaccountably
changed and that she was now rigidly
opposed to her mother seeking relief
from her anxieties by asking Gordon's
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
footpath--so 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 "half-witted
look" more than usually marked.
82
"I wonder," thought Adela to herself,
"if the blast did it or if she was always
like that ?"
Rosaleen stammered.
"Oh, g-g-ood morning. Is there anything
? Do sit down."
"Such a lovely morning," said Mrs.
Marchmont brightly. "All my early tulips
are out. Are yours ?"
The girl stared at her vacantly.
"I don't know."
What was one to do, thought Adela, with someone who didn't talk gardening
or dogs--those standbyes of rural conversation.

Aloud she said, unable to help the tinge
of acidity that crept into her tone:
"Of course you have so many gardeners
--they attend to all that."
"I believe we're shorthanded. Old Mullard
wants two more men, he says. But
there seems a terrible shortage still of
labour."
The words came out with a kind of
glib parrot-like delivery--rather like a child
who repeats what it has heard a grownup
person say.
Yes, she was like a child. Was that,
83
Adela wondered, her charm? Was that
what had attracted that hardheaded
shrewd business man, Gordon Cloade, and
blinded him to her stupidity and her lack
of breeding? After all, it couldn't 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, real--or was it a pose--a pose that
had paid and so had become second
nature ?
Rosaleen was saying, "David's out, I'm
afraid ..." 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.
"I wonder--if you would help me ?"
"Help you ?"
Rosaleen looked surprised, uncomprehending.

"I--things are very difficult--you see,
Gordon's death has made a great difference
to us all."
"You silly idiot," she thought. "Must
you go on gaping at me like that? You
84
know what I mean! You must know
what I mean. After all, you've been poor
yourself. . . "
She hated Rosaleen at that moment.
Hated her because she, Adela Marchmont,
was sitting here whining for money. She
thought, "I can't do itI can't do it
after all."
In one brief instant all the long hours
of thought and worry and vague planning
flashed again across her brain.
Sell the house(But move where?
There weren't any small houses on the
marketcertainly not any cheap houses).
Take paying guests(But you couldn't
get staffand she simply couldn'tshe
just couldn't deal with all the cooking and
housework involved. If Lynn helpedbut
Lynn was going to marry Rowley). Live
with Rowley and Lynn herself? (No,
she'd 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.
"I mean money," she said.
"Money ?" said Rosaleen.
She sounded ingenuously surprised, as
85
though money was the last thing she
expected to be mentioned.
Adela went on doggedly, tumbling the
words out:
"I'm overdrawn at the bank, and I
owe bills--repairs to the house--and the
rates haven't been paid yet. You see,
everything's halved--my income, I mean.
I suppose it's 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
now--"
She stopped. She was ashamed--but
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.

"Oh, dear," she said. "I didn't know.
I never thought . . . I--well, of course, I'll ask David ..."
Grimly gripping the sides of her chair,
Adela said, desperately:
86
"Couldn't you give me a cheque--now.. ."
"Yes--yes, I suppose I could." Rosaleen, looking startled, got up, went to the
desk. She hunted in various pigeonholes
and finally produced a cheque-book. "Shall
I--how much ?"
"Would--would five hundred pounds--"
Adela broke off.
"Five hundred pounds," Rosaleen wrote
obediently.
A load slipped off Adela's 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.
"I hope this is all right. I'm really so
sorry--"
Adela took the cheque. The unformed
childish hand straggled across the pink
paper. Mrs. Marchmont. Five hundred
pounds 3^500. Rosaleen Cloade.
"It's very good of you, Rosaleen. Thank
you."
87
"Oh please--I mean--I ought to have thought--33
"Very good of you, my dear.55 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 good-bye and departed.
She passed David in the drive, said "Good morning33 pleasantly, and
hurried on.
CHAPTER VI
"what was the Marchmont woman doing
here?" demanded David as soon as he
got in.
"Oh, David. She wanted money dreadfully
badly. I'd never thought--"
"And you gave it her, I suppose."
He looked at her in half-humorous
despair.
"You're not to be trusted alone, Rosaleen."

"Oh David, I couldn't refuse. After
all--"
"After all--what ? How much ?"
In a small voice Rosaleen murmured, "Five hundred pounds."
To her relief David laughed.
"Amerefleabite!"
"Oh, David, it's a lot of money."
"Not to us nowadays, Rosaleen. You
never really seem to grasp that you're a
very rich woman. All the same if she asked
five hundred she'd have gone away perfectly
satisfied with two-fifty. You must
learn the language of borrowing!"
89
She murmured, "I'm sorry, David."
"My dear girl! After all, it's your money."
"It isn't. Not really."
"Now don't begin that all over again.
Gordon Cloade died before he had time
to make a will. That's what's called the
luck of the game. We win, you and I.
The others--lose."
"It doesn't seem--right."
"Come now, my lovely sister Rosaleen, aren't you enjoying all this? A big house, servants--jewellery ? Isn't it a dream come
true? Isn't it? Glory be to God, sometimes
I think I'll wake up and find it is a dream."
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.
"It's quite true, David, it is like a dream
--or like something on the Pictures. I
do enjoy it all. I do really."
"But what we have we hold," he
warned her. "No more gifts to the Cloades, Rosaleen. Every one of them has got far
90
more money than either you or I ever
had."
"Yes, I suppose that's true."
"Where was Lynn this morning?" he
asked.
"I think she'd gone to Long Willows."
To Long Willows--to see Rowley--
the oaf--the 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 Rowley's 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
half-way up the hill.
"Good morning," said David. "When's
the wedding ?"
"You've asked that before," she retorted.
"You know well enough. It's in
June."
"You're going through with it ?"
"I don't know what you mean, David."

TAF4
91

"Oh, yes, you do." He gave a contemptuous
laugh. "Rowley. What's Rowley
?"
"A better man than you--touch him if
you dare," she said lightly.
"I've no doubt he's a better man than
me--but I do dare. I'd dare anything
for you, Lynn."
She was silent for a moment or two.
She said at last:
"What you don't understand is that I
love Rowley."
'cc! wonder." ^
She said vehemently:
c(! do, I tell you. I do."
David looked at her searchingly.
"We all see pictures of ourselves--of
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
that's not the real you, is it, Lynn ?"
"Oh, what is the real me? What's the
real you, if it comes to that? What do you want ?"
"I'd have said I wanted safety, peace
after storm, ease after troubled seas. But
I don't know. Sometimes I suspect, Lynn,
92
that both you and I want--trouble." He
added moodily, "I wish you'd never
turned up here. I was remarkably happy
until you came."
"Aren't you happy now ?"
He looked at her. She felt excitement
rising in her. Her breath became faster.
Never had she felt so strongly David's
queer moody attraction. He shot out a
hand, grasped her shoulder, swung her
round . . .
Then as suddenly she felt his grasp
slacken. He was starinjspover 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 Furrowback. David said
sharply: "Who's that?"
Lynn said:
"It looks like Frances."
"Frances?" He frowned. "What does
Frances want ?"
"My dear Lynn! Only those who want
something drop in to see Rosaleen. Your
mother has already dropped in this morning."

(<'Mother?" Lynn drew back. She
frowned. "What did she want ?"
93
"Don't you know ? Money!"
"Money ?" Lynn stiffened.
"She got it all right," said David. He
was smiling now the cool cruel smile
that flitted 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, "Oh, no, no, noV
He mimicked her.
"Yes, yes,yes\"
"I don't believe it! How much?"
"Five hundred pounds."
She drew her breath in sharply.
David said musingly:
"I wonder how much Frances is going
to ask for? Really it's hardly safe to
leave Rosaleen alone for five minutes! The
poor girl doesn't know how to say No."
"Have there been--who else ?"
David smiled mockingly.
"Aunt Kathie had incurred certain debts
--oh, nothing much, a mere two hundred
and fifty covered them--but she was
afraid it might get to the doctor's ears!
Since they had been occasioned by payments
to mediums, he might not have
been sympathetic. She didn't know, of
94
course," added David, "that the doctor
himself had applied for a loan.33
Lynn said in a low voice, "What you
must think of us--what you must think
of us!" 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.
"No, Frances," he said under his breath.
"I think not. You've chosen a bad day,"
and he strode purposefully up the hill.
He went through the gate and down
through the azaleas--crossed the lawn, and came quietly in through the window of
the drawing-room just as Frances Cloade
was saying:
"--I wish I could make it all clearer.
But you see, Rosaleen, it really is frightfully
difficult to explain--"
A voice from behind her said:
"7^ it ?"
Frances Cloade turned sharply. Unlike
Adela Marchmont she had not deliberately
95
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 realised also
that David Hunter was, for some reason,
in a particularly ugly mood.
"Oh, David," she said easily, "I'm glad
you've come. I've just been telling Rosaleen.
Gordon's death has left Jeremy in
no end of a hole, and I'm wondering if
she could possibly come to the rescue.
It's like this--"
Her tongue flowed on swiftly--the large
sum involved--Gordon's backing--promised
verbally--Government restrictions
--mortgages--
A certain admiration stirred in the
darkness of David's mind. What a damned
96
good liar the woman was! Plausible, the
whole story. But not the truth. No, he'd
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, too--
He said, "Ten thousand ?"
Rosaleen murmured in an awed voice:
"That's a lot of money."
Frances said swiftly:
"Oh, I know it is. I wouldn't come
to you if it wasn't such a difficult sum to
raise. But Jeremy would never have gone
into the deal if it hadn't been for Gordon's
backing. It's so dreadfully unfortunate
that Gordon should have died so suddenly--^

"Leaving you all out in the cold?" David's voice was unpleasant. "After a
sheltered life under his wing."
There was a faint flash in Frances' eyes
as she said:
"You put things so picturesquely!"
"Rosaleen can't touch the capital, you
know. Only the income. And she pays
97
about nineteen and six in the pound
income tax."
"Oh, I know. Taxation's dreadful these
days. But it could be managed, couldn't
it ? We'd repay"
He interrupted:
"It could be managed. But it won^t be /"
Frances turned swiftly to Rosaleen.
"Rosaleen, you're such a generous"
David's voice cut across her speech.
"What do you Cloades think Rosaleen
isa milch cow? All of you at her
hinting, asking, begging. And behind her
back? Sneering at her, patronising her,
resenting her, hating her, wishing her
dead"
"That's not true," Frances cried.
"Isn't it? I tell you I'm sick of you
all! She^s sick of you all. You'll get no
money out of us, so you can stop coming
and whining for it ? Understand ?"
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.
"You make your meaning quite plain,
David," she said.
98
Rosaleen murmured:
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry ..."
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.
"You have said that I resent Rosaleen.
That is not true. I have not resented
Rosaleen--but I do resent--youV
"What do you mean ?"
He scowled at her.
"Women 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 softly--on her."
"I stand between her and harpies."
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 moment's apprehension.
But what she said was singularly noncommittal.

"I shall remember what you have said,
David."
99
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.
"Oh, David, David--you oughtn't to
have been saying those things to her. She's
the one of them that's been the nicest
to me.35
He said furiously: "Shut up, you little
fool. Do you want them to trample
all over you and bleed you of every
penny ?"
"But the money--if--if it isn't rightfully
mine--"
She quailed before his glance.
"I--I didn't mean that, David."
"I should hope not."
Conscience, he thought, was the devil!
He hadn't reckoned with the item of
Rosaleen's 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.
Rosaleen's future . . . His own . . . He'd
always known what he wanted ... he
knew now . . . But Rosaleen? What
future was there for Rosaleen ?
100
As his face darkened--she cried out--
suddenly shivering:
"Oh! Someone's walking over my
grave."
He said, looking at her curiously:
"So you realise it may come to that ?"
"What do you mean, David ?"
"I mean that five--six--seven people
have every intention to hurry you into
your grave before you're due there!"
"You don't mean--murder--" Her
voice was horrified. "You think these
people would do murder--not nice people
like the Cloades."
"I'm not sure that it isn't just nice
people like the Cloades who do do murder.
But they won't succeed in murdering you
while I'm here to look after you. They'd
have to get me out of the way first. But
if they did get me out of the way--well
--look out for yourself!"
"David--don't say such awful things."
"Listen," he gripped her arm. "If ever
I'm not here, look after yourself, Rosaleen.
Life isn't safe, remember--it's
dangerous, damned dangerous. And I've
an idea it's specially dangerous for you."
101
CHAPTER VII
"rowley, can you let me have five hundred
pounds ?"
Rowley stared at Lynn. She stood there,
out of breath from running, her face pale, her mouth set.
He said soothingly and rather as he
would speak to a horse:
"There, there, ease up, old girl. What's
all this about ?"
"I want five hundred pounds."
"I could do with it myself, for that
matter."
"But Rowley, this is serious. Can't you
lend me five hundred pounds ?"
"I'm overdrawn as it is. That new
tractor--"
"Yes, yes--" She pushed aside the
farming details. "But you could raise money
somehow--if you had to, couldn't you ?"
"What do you want it for, Lynn? Are
you in some kind of a hole ?"
"I want it for him--" She jerked her
head backwards towards the big square
house on the hill.
102
"Hunter ? Why on earth--"
"It's Mums. She's been borrowing from
him. She's--she's in a bit of a jam about
money."
"Yes, I expect she is." Rowley sounded
sympathetic. "Damned hard lines on her.
I wish I could help a bit--but I can't."
"I can't stand her borrowing money
from David!"
"Hold hard, old girl. It's Rosaleen who
actually has to fork out the cash. And
after all, why not ?"
"Why not? You say, 'Why not,' Rowley?"
"I don't see why Rosaleen shouldn't
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."
"You haven't borrowed from her?"
"No--well--that's different. I can't very
well go and ask a woman for money.
Sort of thing you don't like doing."
"Can't you see that I don't like being--
being beholden to David Hunter ?"
"But you're not. It isn't his money."
"That's just what it is, actually. Rosaleen's
completely under his thumb."
103
"Oh, I dare say. But it isn't his legally."
"And you won't, you can't--lend me
some money ?"
"Now look here, Lynn--if you were
in some real jam--blackmail or debts--
I might be able to sell land or stock--
but it would be a pretty desperate proceeding.
I'm only just keeping my head above
water as it is. And what with not knowing
what this damned Government is
going to do next--hampered at every
turn--snowed under with forms up to
midnight trying to fill them in sometimes
--it's too much for one man."
Lynn said bitterly:
"Oh, I know! If only Johnnie hadn't
been killed--M
He shouted out:
"Leave Johnnie out of it! Don't talk
about that!"
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.
"Can't you give it back. Mums ?" "Really, Lynn darling! I went straight
104
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 haven't been able
to sleep for nights and nights. Really, Rosaleen was most understanding and nice
about it."
Lynn said bitterly:
"And I suppose you'll go to her again
and again now."
"I hope it won't 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."
"Yes, and we shall get worse and worse.
Going on cadging."
Adela flushed.
"I don't think that's a nice way of
putting it, Lynn. As I explained to Rosaleen,
we had always depended on Gordon."
"We shouldn't have. That's what's
wrong, we shouldn't have." Lynn added,
"He's right to despise us."
"Who despises us ?"
"That odious David Hunter."
"Really," said Mrs. Marchmont with
dignity, "I don't see that it can matter
105
in the least what David Hunter thinks.
Fortunately he wasn't at Furrowbank
this morning--otherwise I dare say he
would have influenced that girl. She's
completely under his thumb, of course."
Lynn shifted from one foot to the
other.
"What did you mean. Mums, when
you said--that first morning I was home --If he is her brother ?' "
"Oh, that," Mrs. Marchmont looked
slightly embarrassed. "Well, there's been
a certain amount of gossip, you know."
Lynn merely waited inquiringly. Mrs.
Marchmont coughed.
"That type of young woman--the adventuress
type (of course poor Gordon was
completely taken in) they've usually got
a--well, a young man of their own in
the background. Suppose she says to
Gordon she's got a brother--wires to him
in Canada or wherever he was. This man
turns up. How is Gordon to know whether
he's her brother or not? Poor Gordon, absolutely infatuated no doubt, and believing
everything she said. And so her 'brother' comes with them to England--
poor Gordon quite unsuspecting."
106
Lynn said fiercely:
"I don't believe it. I don't believe it!"
Mrs. Marchmont raised her eyebrows.
"Really, my dear"
"He's not like that. And sheshe isn't
either. She's a fool perhaps, but she's
sweetyes, she's really sweet. It's just
people's foul minds. I don't believe it,
I tell you."
Mrs. Marchmont said with dignity:
"There's really no need to shout"
107
CHAPTER VIII
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
two--then he saw the signpost: Footpath
to Warmsley Vale--and directed his steps
that way with brisk determination.
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
108
orange and green--the 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
air--much, 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.
"It's such a lovely afternoon," she said. "So I came for a walk."
She added:
"David's gone to London."
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 Rosaleen's cigarette. But she was
109
flicking unsuccessfully at an expensivelooking
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:
"Old Gordon knew what he was
doing ..."
Rosaleen stepped back a pace and said
admiringly:
"That's a lovely little heifer you've got
in the top field."
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. Buttermaking
and dairy produce she spoke of
with familiarity.
"Why, you might be a farmer's wife, Rosaleen," he said smiling.
The animation went out of her face.
She said:
"We had a farm--in Ireland--before I
came over here--before--"
"Before you went on the stage ?"
no
She said wistfully and a trifle, it seemed
to him, guiltily:
"It's not so very long ago ... I remember
it all very well." She added with
a flash of spirit, "I could milk your cows
for you, Rowley, now."
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. Rosaleen's version, he thought, was
nearer the truth. Primitive farm life, then
the lure of the stage, the touring company
to South Africa, marriage--isolation in
Central Africa--escape--hiatus--and finally
marriage to a millionaire in New York...
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 young--much 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
in
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 killed . . .
A look of alarm came into Rosaleen's
eyes. She asked uneasily: "What are you
thinking of, Rowley ?"
"Would you like to see over the farm
and the dairy ?"
"Oh, indeed, I would."
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.
"Ohy no--thank you, Rowley--I'd best
be getting home." She looked down at
her watch. "Oh! how late it is! David
will be back by the 5.20 train. He'll
wonder where I am. I--I must hurry."
She added shyly: "I have enjoyed myself,
Rowley."
And that, he thought, was true. She had enjoyed herself. She had been able
to be natural--to 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, she'd had an afternoon out--yes, that was
112
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 it--
Rowley 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, she'd had an afternoon off--and
he, Rowley, had wasted over an hour
of valuable time! Well, perhaps it hadn't
been wasted. Rosaleen, he thought, had
seemed to like him. That might come in
useful. A pretty thing--yes, and the calves
this morning had been pretty . . . 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.
"Is this the way to Warmsley Vale ?"
As Rowley stared he repeated his ques-
li3
tion. With an effort Rowley recalled his
thoughts and answered:
"Yes, keep right along the path--across
that next field. Turn to the left when
you get to the road and about three
minutes takes you right into the village.M
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 on]y^ the
tip of its church tower showing.
The next question was not quite so
usual, but Rowley answered it without
much thought.
"The Stag or the Bells and Motley.
The Stag for choice. They're both equally
good--or bad. I should think you'd get
a room all right."
The question made him look more attentively
at his interlocutor. Nowadays people
usually booked a room beforehand at
any place they were going to ...
The man was tall, with a bronzed face,
114
a beard, and very blue eyes. He was about
forty and not ill-looking in a tough and
rather dare-devil 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 unfamiliar...
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:
"Can you tell me if there's a house
called Furrowbank near here ?"
Rowley answered slowly:
"Why, yes. Up there on the hill. You
must have passed close by itthat is,
if you've come along the footpath from
the station.53
"Yesthat's what I did." He turned,
staring up the hill. "So that was itthat
big white new-looking house."
"Yes, that's the one."
"A big place to run," said the man.
"Must cost a lot to keep up ?"
A devil of a lot, thought Rowley. And
our money ... A stirring of anger made
il5
him forget for the moment where he
was . . .
With a start he came back to himself
to see the stranger staring up the hill
with a curious speculative look in his
eyes.
"Who lives there?" he said. "Is ita
Mrs. Cloade ?"
"That's right,35 said Rowley. "Mrs.
Gordon Cloade."
The stranger raised his eyebrows. He
seemed gently amused.
"Oh," he said, "Mrs. Gordon Cloade.
Very nice for her!"
Then he gave a short nod.
"Thanks, pal," 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 ?
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
116
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:
"Got a stranger staying here ? Big man ?
Slouch hat ?"
"That's right, Mr. Rowley. Came along
about six o'clock. That the one you
mean ?"
Rowley nodded.
"He passed my place. Asked his way.5'
"That's right. Seems a stranger."
"I wondered," said Rowley, "who he
was."
He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice
smiled back.
117
"That's easy, Mr. Rowley, if you'd like
to know."
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.
118
CHAPTER IX
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 invitations--nothing 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,"
119
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 David's
throat. Rosaleen looked up smiling, then
her face changed to an expression of
alarm.
"DavidDavidwhat is it ?"
Mutely he held out the letter to her.
She took it and read it.
"ButDavidI don't understand
what does it mean ?"
"You can read, can't you ?"
She glanced up at him timorously.
"Daviddoes it meanwhat are we
going to do ?"
He was frowningplanning rapidly in
his quick far-seeing mind.
"It's all right, Rosaleen, no need to be
worried. I'll deal with it"
120
"But does it mean that"
"Don't worry, my dear girl. Leave it
to me. Listen, this is what you've got
to do. Pack a bag at once and go up to
London. Go to the flatand stay there
until you hear from me ? Understand ?"
"Yes. Yes, of course I understand, but
David"
"Just do as I say, Rosaleen." He smiled
at her. He was kindly, reassuring. "Go
and pack. I'll drive you to the station.
You can catch the 10.32. Tell the porter
at the flats that you don't want to see
any one. If any one calls and asks for
you, he's to say you're out of town. Give
him a quid. Understand? He's not to let
any one up to see you except me."
"Oh." Her hands went up to her cheeks.
She looked at him with scared lovely
eyes.
"It's all right, Rosaleenbut it's tricky.
You're not much hand at the tricky
stuff? That's my look out. I want you out
of the way so that I've got a free hand,
that's all."
"Can't I stay here, David ?"
"No, of course you can't, Rosaleen. Do
have some sense. I've got to have a free
121
hand to deal with this fellow whoever
he is"
"Do you think that it'sthat it's"
He said with emphasis:
"I don't 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 onthere's a good girl, don't argue."
She turned and went out of the room.
David frowned down at the letter in his
hand.
Very non - committal  polite  well
phrasedmight mean anything. It might
be genuine solicitude in an awkward
situation. Might be a veiled threat. He
conned its phrases over and over"I have
news of Captain Robert Underhay" . . .
"Best to approach you" ... "I shall be
pleased to go into the matter with you ..."
"Mrs. Cloade." Damn it all, he didn't
like those inverted commas"Mrs. Cloade
33
33
He looked at the signature. Enoch Ardden.
Something stirred in his mind
some poetical memory ... a line of verse.
When David strode into the hall of
the Stag that evening, there was, as was
122
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 "For Resident
Guests Only." 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 push-bell 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 Crusoe's island
This time, David's third ring of the
bell brought Miss Beatrice Lippencott
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.
"Good evening, Mr. Hunter. Rather cold
weather for the time of year, isn't it ?"
"Yes--I suppose it is. Have you got
a Mr. Arden staying here ?"
"Let me see now," said Miss LippinTAF5
123
cott, making rather a parade of not knowing
exactly, a proceeding she always
adopted as tending to increase the importance
of the Stag. "Oh, yes. Mr. Enoch Arden. No. 5. On the first floor. You
can't miss it, Mr. Hunter. Up the stairs, and don't go along the gallery but round
to the left and down three steps."
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.
Coming out of the office, Beatrice Lippincott
called, "Lily." An adenoidal girl
with a giggle and pale boiled gooseberry
eyes responded to the summons.
"Can you manage for a bit. Lily? I've
got to see about some linen."
Lily said, "Oh, yes. Miss Lippincott,"
gave a giggle and added, sighing gustily:
"I do think Mr. Hunter's ever so goodlooking,
don't you ?"
"Ah, I've seen a lot of his type in
the war," said Miss Lippincott, with a
world-weary air. "Young pilots and suchlike
from the fighter station. Never could
be sure about their cheques. Often had
124
such a way with them that you'd cash
the things against your better judgment.
But, of course, I'm funny that way. Lily, what I like is class. Give me class every
time. What I say is a gentleman's a gentleman
even if he does drive a tractor.39 With which enigmatic pronouncement
Beatrice left Lily and went up the stairs.
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 world
--on the whole a difficult customer. Such
was David's summing up. Apart from that, not easy to fathom. A dark horse.
Arden said:
"Hallo--you Hunter? Good. Sit down.
What'll you have ? Whisky ?"
He'd made himself comfortable, David
noted that. A modest array of bottles--
a 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, too . . .
"Thanks," David said, "I'll have a spot
of whisky. ^
125
"Say When."
"When. Not too much soda.55
They were a little like dogs, maneuvering
for position--circling round each
other, backs stiff, hackles up, ready to be
friendly or ready to snarl and snap.
"Cheerio," said Arden.
"Cheerio."
They set their glasses down, relaxed a
little. Round One was over.
The man who called himself Enoch
Arden said:
"You were surprised to get my letter ?"
"Frankly," said David, "I don't understand
it at all."
"N-no--n-no--well, perhaps not."
David said:
"I understand you knew my sister's
first husband--Robert Underhay."
"Yes, I knew Robert very well." Arden
was smiling, blowing clouds of smoke
idly up in the air. "As well, perhaps, as any one could know him. You never
met him, did you. Hunter ?"
"No."
"Oh, perhaps that's as well."
"What do you mean by that?" David
asked sharply.
126
Arden said easily:
"My dear fellow, it makes everything
much simpler--that's all. I apologise for
asking you to come here, but I did think
it was best to keep"--he paused--"Rosaleen
out of it all. No need to give her
unnecessary pain."
"Do you mind coming to the point ?"
"Of course, of course. Well now, did
you ever suspect--how shall we say--
that there was anything--well--fishy-- about Underhay's death ?"
"What on earth do you mean ?"
"Well, Underhay had rather peculiar
ideas, you know. It may have been chivalry
--it may just possibly have been for
quite a different reason--but let's say
that, at a particular moment some years
ago there were certain advantages to
Underhay in being considered dead. He
was good at managing natives--always 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
away--with a new name."
"It seems a most fantastic supposition
to me," said David.
127
"Does it? Does it really?35 Arden
smiled. He leaned forward, tapped David
on the knee. "Suppose it's true. Hunter?
Eh ? Suppose it's true ?"
"I should require very definite proof
of it."
"Would you? Well, of course, there's
no super-definite proof. Underhay himself
could turn up here--in Warmsley Vale.
How'd you like that for proof?"
"It would at least be conclusive," said
David dryly.
"Oh, yes, conclusive--but just a little
embarrassing--for Mrs. Gordon Cloade, I mean. Because then, of course, she
wouldn't be Mrs. Gordon Cloade. Awkward.
You must admit, just a little bit
awkward ?"
"My sister," said David, "remarried in
perfectly good faith."
"Of course she did, my dear fellow. Of
course she did. I'm not disputing that
for a second. Any judge would say the
same. No actual blame could attach to
her."
"Judge ?" said David sharply.
The other said as though apologetically:
"I was thinking of bigamy."
128
"Just what are you driving at?" asked
David savagely.
"Now don't get excited, old boy. We
just want to put our heads together and
see what's best to be done--best for
your sister, that's to say. Nobody wants
a lot of dirty publicity. Underhay--well, Underhay was always a chivalrous kind
of chap." Arden paused. "He still is ..."
"Is ?" asked David sharply.
"That's what I said."
"You say Robert Underhay is alive. Where is he now ?"
Arden leaned forward--his voice became
confidential.
"Do you really want to know. Hunter? Wouldn't it be better if you didn't 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 doesn't know his wife has married
again, he hasn't the least idea of it. Because, of course, if he did know he would
have come forward . . . Rosaleen, you see, has inherited a good deal of money from
her second husband--well, then, of course
she isn't entitled to any of that money
.. . Underhay is a man with a very sensitive
129
sense of honour. He wouldn't like her
inheriting money under false pretences." He paused. "But of course it's possible
that Underhay doesn't know anything
about her second marriage. He's in a
bad way, poor fellow--in a very bad way."
"What do you mean by in a bad way ?"
Arden shook his head solemnly.
"Broken down in health. He needs medical
attention--special treatments--all unfortunately
rather expensive'."
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:
"Expensive ?"
"Yes--unfortunately everything costs
money. Underhay, poor devil, is practically
destitute." He added: "He's got
practically nothing but what he stands up
, S)
in ...
Just for a moment David's eyes wandered
round the room. He noted the pack
slung on a chair. There was no suitcase
to be seen.
"I wonder," said David, and his voice
was not pleasant, "if Robert Underhay
130
is quite the chivalrous gentleman you
make him out to be."
"He was once," the other assured him.
"But life, you know, is inclined to make
a fellow cynical." He paused and added
softly: "Gordon Cloade was really an
incredibly wealthy fellow. The spectacle
of too much wealth arouses one's baser
instincts."
David Hunter got up.
"I've got an answer for you. Go to the
devil."
Unperturbed, Arden said, smiling:
"Yes, I thought you'd say that."
"You're a damned blackmailer, neither
more nor less. I've a good mind to call
your bluff."
"Publish and be damned? An admirable
sentiment. But you wouldn't like
it if I did 'publish.' Not that I shall. If
you won't buy, I've another market."
"What do you mean ?"
"The Cloades. Suppose I go to them. 'Excuse me, but would you be interested
to learn that the late Robert Underhay
is very much alive?' Why, man, they'll
jump at it!"
David said scornfully:
l3l
"You won't get anything out of them.
They're broke, every one of them."
"Ah, but there's such a thing as a
working arrangement. So much in cash on
the day it's proved that Underhay is alive, that Mrs. Gordon Cloade is still Mrs.
Robert Underhay and that consequently
Gordon Cloade's will, made before his
marriage is good in law ..."
For some few minutes David sat silent, then he asked bluntly:
"How much ?"
The answer came as bluntly:
"Twenty thousand."
"Out of the question! My sister can't
touch the capital, she's only got a life
interest."
"Ten thousand, then. She can raise
that, easily. There's jewellery, isn't
there ?"
David sat silent, then he said unexpectedly:

"All right."
For a moment the other man seemed
at a loss. It was as though the ease of his
victory surprised him.
"No cheques," he said. "To be paid in
notes!"
132
"You'll have to give us time--to get
hold of the money."
"I'll give you forty-eight hours."
"Make it next Tuesday."
"All right. You'll bring the money
here." He added before David could
speak. "I'm not meeting you at a lonely
copse--or a deserted river bank, so don't
you think so. You'll bring the money
here--to the Stag--at nine o'clock next
Tuesday evening."
"Suspicious sort of chap, aren't you ?"
"I know my way about. And I know
your kind."
"As you said, then."
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 Lippincott's cheeks were pink and
her eyes bright with pleasurable excitement.
She smoothed back her pompadour
of hair with an agitated hand.
133
CHAPTER X
shepherd's 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 pre-war 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.
"Blackmail!" he muttered. "Blackmail!
My God, am I the kind of man to let
myself be blackmailed ?"
134
She shook her head, bewildered, troubled.

"If I knew,53 David was saying. "If I
only knew\^
From Rosaleen there came a small
miserable sob.
He went on:
"It's this working in the dark--working
blindfold--" He wheeled round suddenly.
"You took those emeralds round to Bond
Street to old Greatorex ?"
"Yes."
"How much ?"
Rosaleen's voice was stricken as she
said:
"Four thousand. Four thousand pounds. He said if I didn't sell them they ought
to be reinsured."
"Yes--precious stones have doubled in
value. Oh well, we can raise the money.
But if we do, it's only the beginning--
it means being bled to death--bled, Rosaleen,
bled white!"
She cried:
"Oh, let's leave England--let's get away
couldn't we go to Ireland--America-- somewhere ?"
He turned and looked at her.
135
"You're not a fighter, are you, Rosaleen ?
Cut and run is your motto."
She wailed: "We're wrongall this has
been wrongvery wicked."
"Don't turn pious on me just now! I
can't stand it. We were sitting pretty,
Rosaleen. For the first time in my life
I was sitting prettyand I'm not going
to let it all go, do you hear? If only it
wasn't this cursed fighting in the dark.
You understand, don't you, that the whole
thing may be bluffnothing but bluff?
Underhay's probably safely buried in
Africa as we've always thought he was."
She shivered.
"Don't, David. You make me afraid."
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.
"You're not to worry," he said. "Leave
it all to meand do as I tell you. You
can manage that, can't you? Just do
exactly as I tell you."
"I always do, David."
He laughed. "Yes, you always do. We'll
snap out of this, never you fear. I'll find
a way of scotching Mr. Enoch Arden."
136
"Wasn't there a poem, David--something
about a man coming back--"
"Yes." He cut her short. "That's just
what worries me ... But I'll get to the
bottom of things, never you fear."
She said:
"It's Tuesday night you--take him the
money ?"
He nodded.
"Five thousand. I'll tell him I can't
raise the rest all at once. But I must stop
him going to the Cloades. I think that
was only a threat, but I can't be sure."
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 recognised it ...
It was the laugh of a man going into
action on a hazardous and dangerous
enterprise. There was enjoyment in it and
defiance.
"I can trust you, Rosaleen," he said.
"Thank goodness I can trust you absolutely!"

"Trust me?" She raised her big inquiring
eyes. "To do what ?"
137
He smiled again. "To do exactly as you are told. That's
the secret, Rosaleen, of a successful operation.3'
He,laughed:
"Operation Enoch Arden.33
138
CHAPTER XI
rowley opened the big mauve envelope
with some surprise. Who on earth, he
wondered, could be writing to him, using
that kind of stationeryand how did they
manage to get it, anyway. These fancy
lines had surely gone right out during
the war.
"dear mr. rowley, " he read,
"I hope you won't think I'm taking
a liberty in writing to you this way,
but if you'll excuse me, I do think there
are things going on that you ought to
know about."
He noted the underlining with a puzzled
look.
"Arising out of our conversation the
other evening when you came in asking
about a certain person. If you could
call in at the Stag I'd be very glad to
tell you all about it. We've all of us
felt down here what a wicked shame it
139
was about your Uncle dying and his
money going the way it did.
"Hoping you won't be angry with
me, but I really do think you ought to
know what's going on.
"Yours ever,
"beatrice lippincott."
Rowley stared down at this missive, his mind afire with speculation. What on
earth was all this about? Good old Bee.
He'd known Beatrice all his life. Bought
tobacco from her father's shop and passed
the time of day with her behind the
counter. She'd been a good-looking girl.
He remembered as a child hearing rumours
about her during an absence of hers
from Warmsley Vale. She'd been away
about a year and everybody said she'd
gone away to have an illegitimate baby.
Perhaps she had, perhaps she hadn't. 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. He'd
go along to the Stag right away. To hell
with all those forms. He wanted to know
140
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, "Evening, sir." Rowley edged up
to the bar and asked for a Guinness.
Beatrice beamed upon him.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Rowley."
"Evening, Beatrice. Thanks for your
*
note."
She gave him a quick glance.
"I'll be with you in a minute, Mr.
Rowley."
He noddedand 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, "If
you'll come with me, Mr. Rowley ?"
She led him along a passage and in
through a door marked Private. Inside it
was very small and overfurnished with
plush arm-chairs, a blaring radio, a lot of
china ornaments and a rather batteredlooking
pierrot doll thrown across the back
of a chair.
Beatrice Lippincott turned off the
141
radio and indicated a plush armchair.
"I'm ever so glad you came up, Mr.
Rowley, and I hope you didn't mind my
writing to you--but I've been turning it
over in my mind all over the weekend--
and as I said I really felt you ought to
know what's going on."
She was looking happy and important, clearly pleased with herself.
Rowley asked with mild curiosity:
"What is going on ?"
"Well, Mr. Rowley, you know the
gentleman who's staying here--Mr. Arden,
the one you came and asked about."
"Yes ?"
"It was the very next evening. Mr.
Hunter came along and asked for him."
"Mr. Hunter ?"
Rowley sat up interestedly.
"Yes, Mr. Rowley. No. 5, I said, and
Mr. Hunter nodded and went straight
up. I was surprised I must say, for this
Mr. Arden hadn't said he knew any one
in Warmsley Vale and I'd kind of taken
it for granted he was a stranger here and
didn't know any one in the place. Very
out of temper Mr. Hunter looked, as
though something had happened to upset
142
him but of course I didn't make anything
of it then"
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:
"It was just a little later I had occasion
to go up to No. 4 to see to the towels
and the bed linen. That's next door to
No. 5, and as it happens there's a communicating
door--not that you'd know it
from No. 5 because the big wardrobe
there stands right across it, so that you
wouldn't know there was a door. Of course
it's always kept shut but as it happened
this time it was just a bit open--though who opened it I've no idea, I'm sure\"
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.
"And so you see, Mr. Rowley, I couldn't
help hearing what was going on. Really, you could have knocked me over with a
feather--"
143
A pretty substantial feather, thought
Rowley, would be needed.
He listened, with an impassive, almost
bovine face, to Beatrice's 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.
"Thanks, Beatrice," he said. "Thanks a
lot."
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.
144
CHAPTER XII
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 Beatrice's 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 Rowley's 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 realised rather
grudgingly that it would be far better to lay
the matter before a shrewd and experienced
145
lawyer. The sooner Jeremy was in possession
of this information the better, and
accordingly Rowley bent his footsteps
straight to Jeremy's 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
Jeremy's 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
Jeremy's 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 uniform--
Jeremy's son Antony, killed in the
war.
Rowley winced and turned away. He
146
sat down in a chair and stared at Lord
Edward Trenton instead.
In the dining-room Frances said to her
husband:
"I wonder what Rowley wants ?"
Jeremy said wearily:
"Probably fallen foul of some Government
regulation. No farmer understands
more than a quarter of these forms they
have to fill up. Rowley's a conscientious
fellow. He gets worried.35
"He's nice," said Frances, "but terribly
slow. I have a feeling, you know, that
things aren't going too well between him
and Lynn."
Jeremy murmured vacantly:
"Lynn--oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, I--I don't seem able to concentrate. The
strain--"
Frances said swiftly:
"Don't think about it. It's going to be
all right, I tell you."
"You frighten me sometimes, Frances.
You're so terribly reckless. You don't
realise--"
"I realise everything. I'm not afraid.
Really, you know, Jeremy, I'm rather
enjoying myself--"
147
"That, my dear," said Jeremy, "is just
what causes me such anxiety."
She smiled.
"Come," she said. "You mustn't 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."
But as they came out of the diningroom
the front door banged shut. Edna
came to tell them that Mr. Rowley had
said he wouldn't wait and that it was
nothing that really mattered.
148
CHAPTER XIII
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 realised 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 Hunter's sudden departure
to London with his sister might have
something to do with their monotony.
David, she admitted ruefully, was an
exciting person . . .
149
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. "Old Torn really
can't keep up with things here."
"But, darling, we can't afford it," Lynn
had exclaimed.
"Nonsense, 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 order--and just look
at it now. I feel Gordon would want it
put in order again."
"Even if we have to borrow money
from his widow to do it."
"I told you, Lynn, Rosaleen couldn't
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."
"We could buy a lot of extra vegetables
150
for a good deal less than another three
pounds a week.35
(c! 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."
Lynn said dryly: "I doubt if you'll
find them in Warmsley Valeor in Warmsley
Heath. "
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
David's 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.
"I think, Lynn dear, that we shall soon
have good news."
"What on earth do you mean. Aunt
Kathie ?"
Mrs. Cloade nodded and smiled and
looked wise.
"I've had the most astonishing communicationsreally
astonishing. A simple
l5l
happy end to all our troubles. I had one
setback, but since then I've got the
message to Try try try again. If at first
you don't succeed, etc. . . . I'm 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 specialised studies--
but of course he can't 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."
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,
152
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 miles
--and really think things out. Always, all
her life, she had been a resolute clearheaded
person. She had known what she
wanted and what she didn't want. Never, until now, had she been content just to
drift along . . .
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 orderly--when the weight of
individual decisions had been lifted from
her. But even as she formulated the idea, she was horrified at herself. Was that
153
really and truly what people were secretly
feeling elsewhere? Was that what, ultimately,
war did to you? It was not the
physical dangers--the 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 think . . . She, Lynn Marchmont,
was no longer the clearheaded
resolute intelligent girl who had joined
up. Her intelligence had been specialised,
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 it's really that newspaper
character "the housewife" who has
come into her own through war conditions.
The women who, hindered by innumerable
"shall nots," were not helped
by any definite "shalls." 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 didn't know they had
154
FR1;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 resolution--yes, hateful
word: drifting . . .
The people who had stayed at home, Rowley, for instance.
But at once Lynn's mind dropped from
vague generalities to the immediate personal.
Herself and Rowley. That was the
problem, the real problem--the 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 that--if--if--if!
A bird flew out of the wood with a
startled cry like the cry of an angry child.
TAF6 1^5
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 Lynn's
mind.
She had loved Rowley before she went
away. "But I've come home changed,"
she thought. "I'm not the same Lynn."
A line of poetry flared into her mind.
"Life and the world and mine own self
are changed ..."
And Rowley ? Rowley hadn't changed.
Yes, that was it. Rowley hadn't 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 man's voice cursed as he pushed
his way through.
She cried out, "David!"
156
"Lynn!" He looked amazed as he came
crashing through the undergrowth. "What
in the name of fortune are you doing
here ?"
He had been running and was slightly
out of breath.
"I don't know. Just thinking--sitting
and thinking." She laughed uncertainly.
"I suppose--it's getting very late."
"Haven't you any idea of the time ?"
She looked down vaguely at her wristwatch.

"It's stopped again. I disorganise
watches."
"More than watches!" David said. "It's
the electricity in you. The vitality. The life."
He came up to her, and vaguely disturbed, she rose quickly to her feet.
"It's getting quite dark. I must hurry
home. What time is it, David ?"
"Quarter past nine. I must run like a
hare. I simply must catch the 9.20 train
to London."
"I didn't know you had come back
here!"
"I had to get some things from Furrowbank.
But I must catch this train. Rosa157
leen's alone in the flatand she gets the
jitters if she's alone at night in London."
"In a service flat?" Lynn's voice was
scornful.
David said sharply:
"Fear isn't logical. When you've suffered
from blast"
Lynn was suddenly ashamedcontrite.
She said:
"I'm sorry. I'd forgotten."
With sudden bitterness David cried out:
"Yes, it's soon forgottenall 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, Lynn
you're just the same as the rest of them!"
She cried, "I'm not. I'm not, David.
I was just thinkingnow"
"Of me?"
His quickness startled her. His arm
was round her, holding him to her. He
kissed her with hot angry lips.
"Rowley Cloade?" he said, "that oaf?
By God, Lynn, you belong to me."
Then as suddenly as he had taken her,
he released her, almost thrusting her away
from him.
158
"I'll miss the train."
He ran headlong down the hillside.
"David . . . "
He turned his head, calling back:
"I'll ring you when I get to London ..."
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 mother's affectionate
welcome, her questions . . .
Her mother who had borrowed five
hundred pounds from people whom she
despised.
"We've no right to despise Rosaleen
and David," thought Lynn as she went
very softly upstairs. "We're just the same.
We'd do anything--anything for money."
She stood in her bedroom, looking
curiously at her face in the mirror. It
was, she thought, the face of a stranger . . .
And then, sharply, anger shook her.
"If Rowley really loved me," she
thought, "he'd have got that five hundred
pounds for me somehow. He would--he
159
would. He wouldn't let me be humiliated
by having to take it from DavidDavid
35
  
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 things . . .
160
CHAPTER XIV
"oh, there you are, Lynn." Adela's
voice was brisk and relieved. "I didn't
hear you come in, darling. Have you been
in long ?"
"Oh, yes, ages. I was upstairs."
"I wish you'd tell me when you come
in, Lynn. I'm always nervous when you're
out alone after dark.55
"Really, Mums, don't you think I can
look after myself?"
"Well, there have been dreadful things
in the papers lately. All these discharged
soldiers--they attack girls." "I expect the girls ask for it."
She smiled--rather a twisted smile.
Yes, girls did ask for danger . . . Who,
after all, really wanted to be safe . . . ?
"Lynn, darling, are you listening ?"
Lynn brought her mind back with a
jerk.
Her mother had been talking.
"What did you say. Mums ?"
"I was talking about your bridesmaids,
dear. I suppose they'll be able to pro161
duce the coupons all right. It's very
lucky for you having all your demob ones.
I'm really terribly sorry for girls who get
married nowadays on just their ordinary
coupons. I mean they just can't have
anything new at all. Not outside, I mean.
What with the state all one's undies are
in nowadays one just has to go for them. Yes, Lynn, you really are lucky."
"Oh, very lucky."
She was walking round the room--
prowling, picking up things, putting them
down.
"Must you be so terribly restless, dear ?
You make me feel quite jumpy!"
"Sorry, Mums."
"There's nothing the matter, is there ?"
"What should be the matter?" asked
Lynn sharply.
"Well, don't 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 she'll be hurt
if--"
"I loathe Joan Macrae and always
have."
"I know, darling, but does that really
162
matter? Marjorie will, I'm sure, feel
hurt"
"Really, Mums, it's my wedding, isn't
it ?"
"Yes, I know, Lynn, but"
"If there is a wedding at all!33
She hadn't 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.
"Lynn, darling, what do you mean ?"
"Oh, nothing. Mums."
"You and Rowley haven't quarrelled ?"
"No, of course not. Don't fuss. Mums,
everything's all right."
But Adela was looking at her daughter
in real alarm, sensitive to the turmoil
behind Lynn's frowning exterior.
"I've always felt you'd be so safe
married to Rowley," she said piteously.
"Who wants to be safe?" Lynn asked
scornfully. She turned sharply. "Was that
the telephone ?"
"No. Why ? Are you expecting a call ?"
Lynn shook her head. Humiliating to
be waiting for the telephone to ring.
163
He had said he would ring her tonight.
He must. "You're mad," she told herself. "Mad."
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 Rowley's broad
good-looking countenance. His slow smile, his affectionate glance. But did Rowley, she thought, really care about her ? Surely
if he'd really cared, he'd have understood
that day when she came to him and
begged for five hundred pounds. He'd
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 smells--never again be
free...
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 Kathie's
voice came thinly through the wire.
"Lynn? Is that you? Oh, I'm so glad.
I'm afraid, you know, I've made rather
a muddle--about the meeting at the
Institute--"
164
The thin fluttering voice went on. Lynn
listened, interpolated comments, uttered
reassurances, received thanks.
"Such a comfort, dear Lynn, you are
always so kind and so practical. I really
can't imagine how I get things so muddled
up."
Lynn couldn't imagine either. Aunt
Kathie's capacity for muddling the simplest
issues amounted practically to genius.
"But I always do say," finished Aunt
Kathie, "that everything goes wrong at
once. Our telephone is out of order and
I've had to go out to a call-box, and now
I'm here I hadn't got twopence, only
halfpennies--and I had to go and ask--"
It petered out at last. Lynn hung up
and went back to the drawing-room.
Adela Marchmont, alert, asked: "Was
that--" and paused.
Lynn said quickly: "Aunt Kathie."
"What did she want ?"
"Oh, just one of her usual muddles."
Lynn sat down again with a book,
glancing up at the clock. Yes--it had been
too early. She couldn't expect her call yet.
At five minutes past eleven the telephone
rang again. She went slowly out to it.
165
This time she wouldn't expect--it was
probably Aunt Kathie again . . .
But no. "Warmsley Vale 34 ? Can Miss
Lynn Marchmont take a personal call
from London ?"
Her heart missed a beat.
"This is Miss Lynn Marchmont speaking."

"Hold on, please."
She waited -- confused noises -- then
silence. The telephone service was getting
worse and worse. She waited. Finally she
depressed the receiver angrily. Another
woman's voice, indifferent, cold, spoke, was uninterested. "Hang up, please. You'll
be called later."
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.
"Hallo?"
A man's voice said: "Warmsley Vale 34 ?
Personal call from London for Miss Lynn
Marchmont."
"Speaking."
"Just a minute please." Then, faintly, "Speak up, London, you're through . . . ^
And then, suddenly, David's voice:
166
"Lynn, is that you ?"
"David!"
cc! had to speak to you."
"Yes ..."
"Look here, Lynn, I think I'd better
clear out"
"What do you mean ?"
"Clear out of England altogether. Oh,
it's easy enough. I've pretended it wasn't
to Rosaleensimply because I didn't want
to leave Warmsley Vale. But what's the
good of it all? You and Iit wouldn't
work. You're a fine girl, Lynnand as
for me, I'm a bit of a crook, always have
been. And don't flatter yourself that I'd
go straight for your sake. I might mean
tobut it wouldn't work. No, you'd
better marry the plodding Rowley. He'll
never give you a day's anxiety as long
as you live. I should give you hell."
She stood there, holding the receiver,
saying nothing.
"Lynn, are you still there ?"
"Yes, I'm here."
"You didn't say anything."
"What is there to say ?"
"Lynn ?"
"Well . . . ?"
167
Strange how clearly she could feel over
all that distance, his excitement, the urgency
of his mood . . .
He cursed softly, said explosively, "Oh, to hell with everything!" and rang off.
Mrs. Marchmont coming out of the
drawing-room, said, "Was that-- ?"
"A wrong number," said Lynn and
went quickly up the stairs.
168
CHAPTER XV
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 "Eight-thirty, sir," or "Eight o'clock" 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, "Eightfifteen,
sir," 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 o'clock before she took in
the fact that No. 5's tea was still on the
mat.
She beat a few heavy raps on the door, got no reply and thereupon walked in.
No. 5 was not the kind of gentleman
169
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.
"Ow, Miss LippincottMiss Lippincott
ow"
Beatrice Lippincott was in her private
room having a cut hand bandaged by Dr.
Lionel Cloadethe latter dropped the
bandage and turned irritably as the girl
burst in.
"Ow,Mw!"
The doctor snapped:
"What is it ? What is it ?"
"What's the matter, Gladys?" asked
Beatrice.
"It's the gentleman in No. 5, Miss.
He's lying there on the floor, dead."
The doctor stared at the girl and then
170
at Miss Lippincott: the latter stared at
Gladys and then at the doctor.
Finally, Dr. Cloade said uncertainly:
"Nonsense."
"Dead as a doornail," said Gladys, and
added with a certain relish: "'Is 'ead's
bashed in!"
The doctor looked towards Miss Lippincott.

"Perhaps I'd better--"
"Yes, please. Dr. Cloade. But really--
I hardly think--it seems so impossible."
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.
"You'd better telephone through to the
police station," he said.
Beatrice Lippincott went out, Gladys
followed her.
Gladys said in an awed whisper:
"Ow, Miss, do you think it's murder ?"
Beatrice smoothed back her golden pompadour
with an agitated hand.
"You hold your tongue, Gladys," she
said sharply. "Saying a thing's murder
before you know it's murder is libel and
171
you might be had up in court for it. It'll
do the Stag no good to have a lot of
gossip going about." She added, as a
gracious concession: "You can go and
make yourself a nice cup of tea. I dare
say you need it."
"Yes, indeed. Miss, I do. My inside's
fair turning over! I'll bring you along a
cup,too!"
To which Beatrice did not say No.
172
CHAPTER XVI
superintendent spence looked thoughtfully
across his table at Beatrice Lippincott,
who was sitting with her lips compressed
tightly together.
"Thank you. Miss Lippincott," he said.
"That's all you can remember? I'll have
it typed out for you to read and
then if you wouldn't mind signing
it--53
"Oh, dear--I shan't have to give evidence
in a police court, I do hope."
Superintendent Spence smiled appeasingly.

"Oh, we hope it mayn't come to that,"
he said mendaciously.
"It may be suicide," Beatrice suggested
hopefully.
Superintendent Spence forebore 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:
"Never any good jumping to conclusions.
Thank you. Miss Lippincott. Very
173
good of you to come forward with this
statement so promptly."
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 overheard and remembered.
A little extra embroidery for
excitements 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
174
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
couldn't hurry the Rowley Cloade type.
If you did, they became rattled, repeated
themselves, and generally took twice as
long ...
"Good 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."
Rather to Spence's surprise, Rowley
began with a question. He asked abruptly:
"Have you identified the fellow ?"
"No," said Spence slowly. "I wouldn't
say we had. He signed the register Enoch
Arden. There's nothing in his possession
to show he was Enoch Arden."
Rowley frowned.
"Isn't that--rather odd ?"
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:
"Come now, Mr. Cloade, I'm the one who
175
asks the questions. You went to see the
dead man last night. Why ?"
"You know Beatrice Lippincott, Superintendent
? At the Stag."
"Yes, of course. And," said the Superintendent, taking what he hoped would
be a short cut, "I've heard her story.
She came to me with it."
Rowley looked relieved.
"Good. I was afraid she mightn't want
to be mixed up with a police matter.
These people are funny that way sometimes."
The Superintendent nodded.
"Well, then, Beatrice told me what she'd
overheard and it seemed to me--I don't
know if it does to you--decidedly fishy.
What I mean is--we're, well, we're interested
parties."
Again the Superintendent nodded. He
had taken a keen local interest in Gordon
Cloade's death and in common with
general local opinion he considered that
Gordon's family had been badly treated.
He endorsed the common opinion that
Mrs. Gordon Cloade "wasn't a lady,"
and that Mrs. Gordon Cloade's brother
was one of those young firebrand Commandos
who, though they had had their
176
uses in time of war, were to be looked
at askance in peacetime.
cc! don't suppose I need explain to
you. Superintendent, that if Mrs. Gordon's
first husband is still alive, it will make a
big difference to us as a family. This
story of Beatrice's was the first intimation
I had that such a state of affairs might
exist. I'd 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 realise it, as you
might say. You know, I had to let it
soak in."
Spence nodded again. He could see
Rowley slowly ruminating the matter, turning it over and over in his mind.
"First of all I thought I'd better get
my uncle on to it--the lawyer one."
"Mr. Jeremy Cloade ?"
"Yes, so I went along there. Must
have been some time after eight. They
were still at dinner and I sat down in old
Jeremy's study to wait for him, and I
went on turning things over in my mind.
"Yes ?"
"And finally I came to the conclusion
that I'd do a bit more myself before
177
getting my uncle on to it. Lawyers, Superintendent, are all the same, I've found.
Very slow, very cautious, and have to be
absolutely sure of their facts before they'll
move in a matter. The information I'd got
had come to me in a rather hole-and- corner manner--and I wondered if old
Jeremy might hem and haw a bit about
acting on it. I decided I'd go along to the
Stag and see this Johnnie for myself."
"And you did so ?55
"Yes. I went right back to the Stag--"
"At what time was this ?"
Rowley pondered.
"Lemme see, I must have got to
Jeremy's about twenty past eight or thereabouts--five
minutes--well, I wouldn't
like to say exactly, Spence--after half-past
eight--perhaps about twenty to nine ?"
"Yes, Mr. Cloade ?"
"I knew where the bloke was--Bee had mentioned the number of his room--
so I went right up and knocked at the
door and he said, 'Come in,' and I went in."
Rowley paused.
"Somehow I don't think I handled the
business very well. I thought when I
went in that I was the one who was on
178
top. But the fellow must have been
rather a clever fellow. I couldn't pin him
down to anything definite. I thought he'd
be frightened when I hinted he'd been
doing a spot of blackmail, but it just
seemed to amuse him. He asked me--
damned cheek--if I was in the market too ? 'You can't play your dirty game with
me,' I said. '/'ve nothing to hide.' And he
said rather nastily that that wasn't his
meaning. The point was, he said, that he'd got something to sell and was I a buyer? 'What do you mean?' I said. He said:
'How much will you--or the family generally--pay
me for the definite proof that
Robert Underhay, reported dead in Africa, is really alive and kicking?' I asked him
why the devil we should pay anything
at all ? And he laughed and said, 'Because
I've got a client coming this evening
who certainly will pay a very substantial
sum for proof positive that Robert Underhay
is dead.' Then--well, then, I'm afraid
I rather lost my temper and told him
that my family weren't 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
179
I was just stalking out when he laughed
and said in what was really rather a queer
tone, <I don't think you'll prove it without my co-operation.' Funny sort of way he
said that."
"And then ?"
"Well, frankly, I went home rather
disturbed. Felt, you know, that I'd messed
things up. Rather wished I'd left it to
old Jeremy to tackle after all. I mean, dash it all, a lawyer's used to dealing with
slippery customers."
"What time did you leave the Stag ?"
"I've 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 village--through one of the windows."
"Did Arden say who it was he was
expecting ? The 'client' ?"
"No. I took it for granted it was David
Hunter. Who else could it be ?"
"He didn't seem in any way alarmed
by the prospect ?"
"I tell you the fellow was thoroughly
pleased with himself and on top of the
world!"
Spence indicated with a slight gesture
the heavy steel tongs.
180
"Did you notice these in the grate, Mr.
Cloade ?"
"Those? NoI don't think so. The
fire wasn't lit." He frowned, trying to
visualise the scene. "There were fireirons
in the grate, I'm sure, but I can't
say I noticed what they were." He added,
"Was that what"
Spence nodded.
"Smashed his skull in."
Rowley frowned.
"Funny. Hunter's a lightly built chap
Arden was a big manpowerful."
The Superintendent said in a colourless
voice:
"The 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."
Rowley said thoughtfully:
"Of course he was a cocksure sort of
a blokebut all the same I wouldn't
have turned my back with a fellow in the
room whom I was trying to bleed white
and who'd done some pretty tough fighting
in the war. Arden can't have been a very
cautious sort of chap."
"If he had been cautious very likely he'd be
181
alive now," said the Superintendent dryly.
cc! wish to God he was," said Rowley
fervently. "As it is I feel I've mucked
things up thoroughly. If only I hadn't 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 thing's so damned
silly. I mean, who are we to bid against
Rosaleen and David? They've got the
cash. None of us could raise five hundred
pounds between us."
The Superintendent picked up the gold
lighter.
"Seen this before ?"
A crease appeared between Rowley's
brows. He said slowly:
"I've seen it somewhere, yes, but I
can't remember where. Not very long
ago. No--I can't remember."
Spence did not give the lighter into
Rowley's outstretched hand. He put it
down and picked up the lipstick, unsheathing
it from its case.
"And this ?"
Rowley grinned.
"Really, that's not in my line. Superintendent."

182
Thoughtfully, Spence smeared a little
on the back of his hand. He put his head
on one side, studying it appreciatively.
"Brunette colouring, I should say," he
remarked.
"Funny things you policemen know,"
said Rowley. He got up. "And you don't
definitely do notknow who the dead
man was ?"
"Have you any idea yourself, Mr.
Cloade ?"
"I only wondered," said Rowley slowly.
"I meanthis fellow was our only clue
to Underhay. Now that he's deadwell,
looking for Underhay is going to be like
looking for a needle in a haystack."
"There'll be publicity, Mr. Cloade,"
said Spence. "Remember that in due
course a lot of this will appear in the
press. If Underhay is alive and comes to
read about itwell, he may come forward."
"Yes," said Rowley doubtfully. "He
may."
"But you don't think so ?"
"I think," said Rowley Cloade, "that
Round One has gone to David Hunter."
 "I wonder," said Spence. As Rowley
went out, Spence picked up the gold
183
lighter and looked at the initials D.H. on
it. "Expensive bit of work," he said to
Sergeant Graves. "Not mass produced.
Quite easily identified. Greatorex or one
of those Bond Street places. Have it
seen to!"
"Yes, sir."
Then the Superintendent looked at the
wrist-watch--the glass was smashed and
the hands pointed to ten minutes past
nine.
He looked at the Sergeant.
"Got the report on this. Graves ?"
"Yes, sir. Mainspring's broken."
"And the mechanism of the hands ?"
"Quite all right, sir."
"What, in your opinion. Graves, does
the watch tell us ?"
Graves murmured warily, "Seems as
though it might give us the time the
crime was committed."
"Ah," said Spence, "when you've been
as long in the Force as I have, you'll be
a leetle suspicious of anything so convenient
as a smashed watch. It can be
genuine--but it's a well-known hoary old
trick. Turn the hands of a watch to a
time that suits you--smash it--and out
184
with some virtuous alibi. But you don't
catch an old bird that way. I'm keeping
a very open mind on the subject of the
time this crime was committed. Medical
evidence is: between 8 p.m. and n p.m."
Sergeant Graves cleared his throat.
"Edwards, second gardener at Furrowbank,
says he saw David Hunter coming
out of a side door there about 7.30. The
maids didn't know he was down here.
They thought he was up in London with
Mrs. Gordon. Shows he was in the neighbourhood
all right."
"Yes," said Spence. "I'll be interested
to hear Hunter's own account of his
doings."
"Seems like a clear case, sir," said
Graves, looking at the initials on the
lighter.
"H'm," said the Superintendent.
"There's still this to account for."
He indicated the lipstick.
"It had rolled under the chest of drawers,
sir. Might have been there some
time."
"I've checked up," said Spence. "The
last time a woman occupied that room
was three weeks ago. I know service isn't
185
up to much nowadaysbut 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."
"There's been no suggestion of a woman
being mixed up with Arden."
(c! know," said the Superintendent.
"That's why that lipstick is what I call
the unknown quantity."
Sergeant Graves refrained from saying
"Cherchez la femme." 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.
186
FR1;CHAPTER XVII
superintendent spence looked up at
Shepherd's Court, Mayfair, before stepping
inside its agreeable portal. Situated
modestly in the vicinity of Shepherd's
Market, it was discreet, expensive and
inconspicuous.
Inside, Spence's feet sunk into soft pile
carpet, there was a velvet covered settee
and a jardiniere 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 uniTAF7
lg-7
form appeared. His appearance was that of
a foreign General or possibly Field Marshal, but his speech was of London and
uneducated London at that.
"Yes, sir ?"
"Mrs. Gordon Cloade."
"Third floor, sir. Shall I ring through
first ?"
"She's here, is she?" said Spence. "I
had an idea she might be in the country."
"No, sir, she's been here since Saturday
last."
"And Mr. David Hunter ?"
"Mr. Hunter's been here, too."
"He's. not been away ?"
"No, sir."
"Was he here last night ?"
"Now then," said the Field Marshal, suddenly becoming aggressive. "What's
all this about? Want to know every one's
life history ?"
Silently Spence displayed his warrant
card. The Field Marshal was immediately
deflated and became cooperative.
"Sorry, I'm sure," he said. "Couldn't
tell, could I ?"
"Now then, was Mr. Hunter here last
night ?"
188
"Yes, sir, he was. At least to the best
of my belief he was. That is, he didn't
say he was going away.5'
"Would you know if he was away ?"
"Well, generally speaking, no. I don't
suppose I should. Gentlemen and ladies
usually say if they're not going to be
here. Leave word about letters or
what they want said if any one rings
up."
"Do telephone calls go through this
office ?"
"No, 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.33
"But Mrs. Cloade's flat has its own
phone ?"
"Yes, sir."
"And as far as you know they were
both here last night ?"
"That's right."
"What about meals ?"
"There's a restaurant, but Mrs. Cloade
and Mr. Hunter don't very often use it.
They usually go out to dinner."
189
"Breakfast ?"
"That's served in the flats."
"Can you find out if breakfast was
served this morning to them ?"
"Yes, sir. I can find out from room
service."
Spence nodded. "I'm going up now.
Let me know about that when I come
down."
"Very good, sir."
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.
"Well, what is it ?"
"Mr. Hunter ?"
"Yes."
"Superintendent Spence of the Oastshire
County Police. Can I have a word
with you ?"
"I apologise. Superintendent." He
grinned. "I thought you were a tout.
Come in."
He led the way into a modern and
charming room. Rosaleen Cloade was
190
standing by the window and turned at
their entrance.
"Superintendent Spence, Rosaleen," said
Hunter. "Sit down. Superintendent. Have
a drink ?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Hunter."
Rosaleen had inclined her head slightly.
She sat now, her back to the window, her hands clasped tightly on her lap.
"Smoke ?" David preferred cigarettes.
"Thanks." Spence took a cigarette,
waited . . . 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 Superintendent's
cigarette.
"Thank you, sir."
"Well," said David, easily, as he lit
his own cigarette. "What's wrong at
Warmsley Vale ? Has our cook been dealing
in the Black Market? She provides
us with wonderful food, and I've always
wondered if there was some sinister story
behind it."
"It's rather more serious than that,"
said the Superintendent. "A man died at
the Stag Inn last night. Perhaps you
saw it in the papers ?"
191
David shook his head.
"No, I didn't notice it. What about
him ?"
"He didn't only die. He was killed.
His head was stove in as a matter of
fact."
A half-choked exclamation came from
Rosaleen. David said quickly:
"Please, Superintendent, don't enlarge
on any details. My sister is delicate. She
can't help it, but if you mention blood
and horrors she'll probably faint.53
"Oh, I'm sorry," said the Superintendent.
"But there wasn't any blood to
speak of. It was murder right enough,
though."
He paused. David's eyebrows went up.
He said gently:
"You interest me. Where do we come
in?"
"We hoped you might be able to tell
us something about this man, Mr. Hunter."
"I ?"
"You called to see him on Saturday
evening last. His name--or the name
he was registered under--was Enoch
Arden."
"Yes, of course. I remember now."
192
David spoke quietly, without embarrass
ment.
"Well, Mr. Hunter ?"
"Well, Superintendent, I'm afraid 1
can't help you. I know next to nothiig
about the man."
"Was his name really Enoch Ardeny\
"I should very much doubt it."
"Why did you go to see him ?"
"Just one of the usual hard luck storiti
He mentioned certain places, war expelences, people" David shrugged Hi
shoulders. "Just a touch, I'm afraid. Tti
whole thing rather bogus."
"Did you give him any money, sir ?^
There was a fractional pause and tbi
David said:
"Just a fiverfor luck. He'd beeni
the war all right."
"He mentioned certain names that yoip
knew ?"
"Yes."
"Was one of those names Captsii
Robert Underhay ?"
Now at last he got his effect. Dwi
stiffened. Behind him, Rosaleen gavei
little frightened gasp.
"What makes you think that, Superir
193
tendent?" David asked at last. His eyes
were cautious, probing.
"Information received," said the Superintendent
stolidly.
There was a short silence. The Superintendent
was aware of David's eyes, studying him, sizing him up, striving to know . . . He himself waited quietly.
"Any idea who Robert Underhay was, Superintendent ?" David asked.
"Suppose you tell me, sir."
"Robert Underhay was my sister's first
husband. He died in Africa some years ago."
"Quite sure of that, Mr. Hunter?"
Spence asked quickly.
"Quite sure. That's so, isn't it, Rosaleen
?" He turned to her.
"Oh, yes." She spoke quickly and
breathlessly. "Robert died of fever--blackwater
fever. It was very sad."
"Sometimes stories get about that aren't
quite true, Mrs. Cloade."
She said nothing. She was looking not
at him, but at her brother. Then, after
a moment, she said:
"Robert's dead."
"From information in my possession,"
said the Superintendent, "I understand
194
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.'5
David shook his head.
"Nonsense," he said. "Absolute nonsense."
"You state definitely that the name of
Robert Underhay was not mentioned ?"
"Oh," David smiled charmingly, "it
was mentioned. This poor fellow had known
Underhay."
"There was no question of--blackmail,
Mr. Hunter ?"
"Blackmail? I don't understand you,
Superintendent."
"Don't you really, Mr. Hunter? By
the way, just as a matter of form, where
were you last night--between, shall we
say, seven and eleven ?"
"Just as a matter of form. Superintendent, suppose I refuse to answer ?"
"Aren't you behaving rather childishly,
Mr. Hunter ?"
"I don't think so. I dislike--I always
have disliked, being bullied."
The Superintendent thought that was
probably true.
195
He'd 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 Shepherd's
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 David's defiance
awoke doubts in him.
Spence looked at Rosaleen Cloade. She
responded at once.
"David, why don't you tell him ?53
"That's right, Mrs. Cloade. We only
want to clear things up--"
David broke in savagely:
"You'll 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 ?"
196
Spence said warningly:
"You'll be subpoena'd for the Inquest,
Mr. Hunter, and there you'll have to
answer questions."
"I'll wait for the Inquest, then! And
now. Superintendent, will you get to hell
out of here ?"
"Very good, sir.33 The Superintendent
rose, imperturbable. "But I've something
to ask Mrs. Cloade first."
"I don't want my sister worried."
"Quite so. But I want her to look at
the body and tell me if she can identify
it. I'm within my rights there. It'll 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
Underhayergo he may have known Mrs.
Underhayand therefore Mrs. Underhay
may know him. If his name isn't Enoch
Arden, we could do with knowing what it
really is."
Rather unexpectedly Rosaleen Cloade
got up.
"I'll come, of course," she said.
Spence expected a fresh outburst from
David, but to his surprise the other grinned.
197
"Good for you, Rosaleen," he said.
"I'll confess, I'm curious myself. After
all, you may be able to put a name to
the fellow."
Spence said to her:
"You didn't see him yourself in Warmsley Vale ?"
She shook her head.
"I've been in London since Saturday
last.33
"AndArdenarrivedonFridaynightyes."
Rosaleen asked: "Do you want me to
come now ?"
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.
"That would be very nice of you,
Mrs. Cloade," he said. "The sooner we
can get certain facts definitely established
the better. I haven't got a police car here,
I'm afraid."
David crossed to the telephone.
"I'll ring up the Daimler Hire. It's
beyond the legal limitbut I expect you
can square that. Superintendent."
198
"I think that can be arranged, Mr.
Hunter."
He got up. "I'll be waiting for you
downstairs."
He went down in the lift and pushed
open the office door once more.
The Field Marshal was awaiting him.
"Well ?"
"Both beds slept in last night, sir.
Baths and towels used. Breakfast was
served to them in the flat at nine-thirty."
"And you don't know what time Mr.
Hunter came in yesterday evening ?"
"I can't tell you anything further, I'm
afraid, sir!"
Well, that was that, Spence thought.
He wondered if there was anything behind
David's refusal to speak except pure
childlike defiance. He must realise 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 antagonise the police. But antagonising
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 Rosa199
leen Cloade was very pale. Her hands
were shaking. David looked concerned
for her. He spoke to her as though she
was a small child.
"It'll be only a minute or two, mavourneen.
It's nothing at all, nothing at all
now. Don't get worked up. You go in
with the Superintendent and I'll wait for
you. And there's nothing at all to mind
about. Peaceful he'll look and just as
though he were asleep."
She gave him a little nod of the head
and stretched out her hand. He gave it a
little squeeze.
"Be a brave girl now, alanna."
As she followed the Superintendent she
said in her soft voice: "You must think
I'm a terrible coward. Superintendent.
But when they've been all dead in the
house--all dead but you--that awful night
in London--"
He said gently: "I 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."
At a sign from Spence the sheet was
turned back. Rosaleen Cloade stood look200
ing 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 wondering--she 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.
"God rest, his soul," she said. "I've
never seen that man in my life. I don't
know who he is."
Spence thought to himself:
"Either you're one of the finest actresses
I've ever known or else you're speaking
the truth."
Later, Spence rang up Rowley Cloade.
"I've had the widow down," he said.
"She says definitely that he's not Robert
Underhay, and that she's never seen him
before. So that settles that\"
There was a pause. Then Rowley said
slowly:
"Does it settle it ?"
"I think a jury would believe her--in
the absence of evidence to the contrary, of course."
201
"Ye-es,55 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.
202
Book Two
CHAPTER 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 man's 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
203
distinctly. Major Porter's voice saying, "Maybe a Mr. Enoch Arden will turn up
somewhere a thousand miles away and
start life anew." 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.
"Aha," said Hercule Poirot with satisfaction.
"Show him in."
A good-looking worried young man was
shown in, and seemed rather at a loss how
to begin.
"Well, Mr. Cloade," said Poirot helpfully, "and what can I do for you ?"
Rowley Cloade was eyeing Poirot rather
doubtfully. The flamboyant moustaches, the sartorial elegance, the White spats
and the pointed patent leather shoes all
204
filled this insular young man with distinct
misgivings.
Poirot realised this perfectly well, and
was somewhat amused.
Rowley Cloade began rather heavily:
"I'm afraid I'll have to explain who I
am and all that. You won't know my
name--"
Poirot interrupted him:
"But yes, I know your name perfectly.
Your aunt, you see, came to see me last
week."
"My aunt?" Rowley's 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 realised
that there was no coincidence--merely a
natural sequence proceeding from one
initial cause.
Aloud he said:
"I assume that Mrs. Lionel Cloade is your aunt."
205
If anything Rowley looked rather more
astonished than before.
He said with the utmost incredulity:

"Aunt Kathie ? Surely--don't you mean
--Mrs. Jeremy Cloade ?"
Poirot shook his head.
"But what on earth could Aunt Kathie
33
Poirot murmured discreetly:
"She was directed to me, I understand, by spirit guidance."
"Oh Lord!" said Rowley. He looked
relieved and amused. He said, as though
reassuring Poirot, "She's quite harmless, you know."
"I wonder," said Poirot.
"What do you mean ?"
"Is anybody--ever--quite harmless ?"
Rowley stared. Poirot sighed.
"You have come to me to ask me
something ?--Yes ?" he prompted gently.
The worried look came back to Rowley's
face.
"It's rather a long story, I'm afraid--"
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
206
point quickly. He leaned back and halfclosed
his eyes as Rowley began:
"My uncle, you see, was Gordon Cloade
__99
"I know all about Gordon Cloade," said
Poirot, helpfully.
"Good. Then I needn't explain. He
married a few weeks before his death--a
young widow called Underhay. Since his
death she has been living at Warmsley
Vale--she 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 mightn't be so."
"Ah," Poirot sat up. "And what has
led you to that surmise ?"
Rowley described the advent of Mr.
Enoch Arden in Warmsley Vale. "Perhaps
you have seen in the papers--"
"Yes, I have seen." 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.
"Of course," Rowley said, "one can't be
sure just what she did hear. She may
207
have exaggerated it all a bitor even got
it wrong."
"Has she told her story to the police ?"
Rowley nodded. "I told her she'd
better."
"I don't quite seepardon mewhy
you come to me., Mr. Cloade? Do you
want me to investigate thismurder ? For
it is murder, I assume."
"Lord, no," said Rowley. cc! don't want
anything of that kind. That's a police
job. He was bumped off all right. No,
what I'm after is this. I want you to find
out who the fellow was."
Poirot's eyes narrowed.
"Who do you think he was, Mr.
Cloade?"
"Well, I meanEnoch Arden isn't a
name. Dash it all, it's a quotation. Tennyson.
I went and mugged it up. Fellow
who comes back and finds out his wife
has married another fellow."
"So you think," said Poirot quietly,
"that Enoch Arden was Robert Underhay
himself?"
Rowley said slowly:
"Well, he might have beenI mean,
about the right age and appearance and
208
all that. Of course I've gone over it all
with Beatrice again and again. She can't
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,
mightn't he? He seems to have said
something about it wouldn't suit David
Hunter's book if Underhay turned up in
Warmsley Valesounding a bit as though
he was there under an assumed name."
"What evidence of identification was
there at the Inquest ?"
Rowley shook his head.
"Nothing definite. Only the Stag people
saying he was the man who'd come there
and registered as Enoch Arden."
"What about his papers ?"
"He hadn't any."
"What?" Poirot sat up in surprise.
"No papers of any kind ?"
"Nothing at all. Some spare socks and
a shirt and a toothbrush, etc.but no
papers."
"No passport? No letters? Not even a
ration card ?"
"Nothing at all."
209
"That," said Poirot, "is very interesting.
Yes, very interesting. "
Rowley went on: "David Hunter, that's
Rosaleen Cloade's brother, had called to
see him the evening after he arrived.
His story to the police is that he'd had a
letter from the chap saying he had been a
friend of Robert Underhay's and was
down and out. At his sister's request he
went to the Stag and saw the fellow and
gave him a river. That's his story and you
bet he means to stick to it! Of course the
police are keeping dark about what Beatrice
heard."
"David Hunter says he had no previous
acquaintance with the man ?"
"That's what he says. Anyway, I gather
Hunter never met Underhay."
"And what about Rosaleen Cloade ?"
"The 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."
"Eh bien," said Piorot. "Then that
answers your question!"
"Does it?" said Rowley bluntly. "I
think not. If the dead man is Underhay
then Rosaleen was never my uncle's wife
210
and she's not entitled to a penny of his
money. Do you think she would recognise
him under those circumstances ?" "You don't trust her ?"
"I don't trust either of them."
"Surely there are plenty of people who
could say for certain that the dead man
is or is not Underhay ?"
"It doesn't seem to be so easy. That's
what I want you to do. Find someone who
knows Underhay. Apparently he has no
living relations in this country--and he
was always an unsociable lonely sort of
chap. I suppose there must be old servants--friends--someone--but
the war's
broken up everything and shifted people
round. / wouldn't know how to begin
to tackle the job--anyway I haven't the
time. I'm a farmer--and I'm shorthanded."

"Why me ?^ said Hercule Poirot.
Rowley looked embarrassed.
A faint twinkle came into Poirot's eye.
"Spirit guidance ?35 he murmured.
"Good Lord, no/3 said Rowley horrified.
"Matter of fact/3 he hesitated, "I
heard a fellow I know talk about you--said
you were a wizard at these sort of things.
211
I don't know about your feesexpensive,
I expectwe're rather a stony-broke lot,
but I dare say we could cough it up
amongst the lot of us. That is, if you'll
take it on."
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
"Yes, I think perhaps I can help you."
His memory, a very precise and definite
memory, went back. The club bore, the
rustling newspapers, the monotonous
voice.
The namehe had heard the nameit
would come back to him presently. If not,
he could always ask Mellon . . . No, he
had got it. Porter. Major Porter.
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.
"Will you come back here this afternoon,
Mr. Cloade ?"
"WellI don't know. Yes, I suppose I
could. But surely you can't do anything
in that short time ?"
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:
"I have my methods, Mr. Cloade."
212
It was clearly the right thing to say.
Rowley's expression became respectful in
the extreme.
"Yes--of course--really--I don't know
how you people do these things."
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 o'clock.
At four-thirty Rowley Cloade reapeared.
"Any
luck, M. Poirot ?"
"But yes, Mr. Cloade, we go now to
see an old friend of Captain Robert
Underhay's."
"What ?" Rowley's mouth fell open. He
stared at Poirot with the amazement a
small boy shows when a conjurer produces
rabbits out of a hat. "But it's incredible\ I don't understand how you
213
can do these thingswhy, it's only a
few hours."
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.
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 floorgood 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
realised then that there had been other
better rugs until recentlyrugs 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.
214
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 warhorses.
Some things, he guessed. Major
Porter would cling to until the end. His
club subscription, for instance.
Major Porter was speaking jerkily.
" 'Fraid I don't remember meeting you,
M. Poirot. At the club, you say? Couple
of years ago ? Know your name of
course."
"This," said Poirot, "is Mr. Rowland
Cloade."
Major Porter jerked his head in honour
of the introduction.
"How d'ye do?" he said. "'Fraid I
can't 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, / always think. Or what
about some beer ?"
They accepted beer. Major Porter produced
a cigarette case. "Smoke?" Poirot
accepted a cigarette. The Major struck
a match and lighted Poirot's cigarette.
"You don't, I know," said the Major
to Rowley. "Mind if I light my pipe?"
215
He did so with a great deal of sucking
and blowing.
"Now then," he said when all these
preliminaries had been accomplished.
"What's all this about ?"
He looked from one to the other of
them.
Poirot said: "You may have read in the
paper of the death of a man at Warmsley
Vale ?"
Porter shook his head.
"May have. Don't think so."
"His name was Arden. Enoch Arden ?"
Porter still shook his head.
"He was found at the Stag Inn with
the back of his head smashed in."
Porter frowned.
"Let me seeyes, did see something
about it, I believesome days ago."
"Yes. I have here a photographit is
a press photograph and not very clear,
I'm afraid! What we should like to know,
Major Porter, is whether you have ever
seen this man before ?"
He handed over the best reproduction
of the dead man's face he had been able
to find.
Major Porter took it and frowned at it.
216
"Wait a sec." The Major took out his
spectacles, adjusted them on his nose and
studied the photograph more closely
then he gave a sudden start.
"God bless my soul!" he said. "Well,
Fm damned!"
"You know the man. Major ?"
"Of course I know him. It's Underhay
Robert Underhay."
"You're sure of that?" There was
triumph in Rowley's voice.
"Of course I'm sure. Robert Underhay!
I'd swear to it anywhere."
217
CHAPTER II
the telephone rang and Lynn went to
answer it.
Rowley's voice spoke.
"Lynn ?"
"Rowley ?"
Her voice sounded depressed. He said:
"What are you up to? I never see you
these days."
"Oh, wellit's all choresyou 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."
"I want to see you. I've got something,
to tell you."
"What sort of thing ?"
He gave a chuckle.
"Good news. Meet me by Rolland
Copse. We're ploughing up there."
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 ?
218
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.
"Hallo, Lynn."
"Why, Rowley--you look--different^ somehow ?"
He laughed.
"I should think I do. Our luck's turned, Lynn!"-
"What do you mean ?"
"Do you remember old Jeremy mentioning
a chap called Hercule Poirot ?"
"Hercule Poirot ?" Lynn frowned. "Yes, I do remember something--"
"Quite 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."
"Well ?" Lynn demanded impatiently.
"Fellow has the wrong clothes and all
that. French chap--or Belgian. Queer
fellow but he's the goods all right."
Lynn knit her brows.
"Wasn't he--a detective ?"
"That's right. Well, you know, this
fellow who was done in at the Stag. I
didn't tell you but an idea was getting

TAF8
219

around that he might just possibly be
Rosaleen Cloade's first husband."
Lynn laughed.
"Simply because he called himself Enoch
Arden ? What an absurd idea!53
"Not so absurd, my girl. Old Spence
got Rosaleen down to have a look at
him. And she swore quite firmly that he
wasn't her husband."
"So that finished it ?"
"It might have," said Rowley. "But for
me\"
"For you ? What did you do ?"
"I 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 he's absolutely wizard that chap!
Just like rabbits out of a hat. He produced
a fellow who was Underhay's best friend
in a few hours. Old boy called Porter."
Rowley stopped. Then he chuckled again
with that note of excitement that had
surprised and startled Lynn. "Now keep
this under your hat, Lynn. The Super
swore me to secrecybut I'd like you to
know. The dead man is Robert Underhay."
220
"What?" Lynn took a step back. She
stared at Rowley blankly.
"Robert Underhay himself. Porter hadn't
the least doubt. So you see, Lynn"--
Rowley's voice rose excitedly--"we've won \ After all, we've won\ We've beaten those
damned crooks!"
"What damned crooks ?"
"Hunter and his sister. They're licked
--out of it. Rosaleen doesn't get Gordon's
money. We get it. It's ours\ Gordon's
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 allI"
"Are you--are you sure of what you're
saying ?"
He stared at her, for the first time he
looked faintly puzzled.
"Of course I'm sure! It's elementary.
Everything's all right now. It's the same
as Gordon meant it to be. Everything's
the same as if that precious pair had
never butted in."
Everything's the same .. But you couldn't, Lynn thought, wash out like that some221
thing that had happened. You couldn't
pretend that it had never been. She said
slowly:
"What will they do ?"
"Eh ?" She saw that until that moment
Rowley had hardly considered that question.
"I don't know. Go back where they
came from, I suppose. I think, you know
--" She could see him slowly following
it out. "Yes, 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.
It's not her fault. Yes, we must do something
about her--give her a decent allowance.
Make it up between us all."
"You like her, don't you ?" said Lynn.
"Well, yes." He considered. "I do in
a way. She's a nice kid. She knows a cow
when she sees it."
"I don't," said Lynn.
"Oh, you'll learn," said Rowley kindly.
"And what about--David ?" asked Lynn.
Rowley scowled.
"To hell with David! It was never his money anyway. He just came along and
sponged on his sister."
"No, Rowley, it wasn't like that--it
222
wasn't. He's not a sponger. He's--he's an
adventurer, perhaps--"
^And a ruddy murderer!"
She said breathlessly:
"What do you mean ?"
"Well, who do you think killed Underhay?"
She
cried:
"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!"
"Of 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."
Lynn said sharply:
"He went back to London that evening."
"After having killed Underhay," said
Rowley triumphantly.
"You oughtn't to say things like that,
Rowley. What time was Underhay killed ?"
"Well--I don't know exactly.," Rowley
slowed up--considered. "Don't suppose
we shall know until the Inquest tomorrow.
Some time between nine and ten, I imagine."
"David caught the nine-twenty train
back to London."
"Look here, Lynn, how do you know ?"
223
"II met himhe was running for it."
"How do you know he ever caught it ?"
"Because he telephoned me from London
later.33
Rowley scowled angrily.
"What the hell should he telephone you
for? Look here, Lynn, I'm damned if
I35
"Oh, what does it matter Rowley?
Anyway, it shows he caught that train."
"Plenty of time to have killed Underhay
and then run for the train."
"Not if he was killed after nine o'clock."
"Well, he may have been killed just
before nine."
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 excitementthe
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 harma ghost from
224
the past ? A man whose only crime was to
stand between Rosaleen and a big inheritance--between
David and the enjoyment
of Rosaleen's money.
She murmured:
^Why should he kill Underhay ?"
"My God, Lynn, can you ask^ I've
just told you! Underhay's being alive
means that we get Gordon's money! Anyway, Underhay was blackmailing him."
Ah, that fell more into the pattern.
David might kill a blackmailer--in fact,
wasn't it just the way he would deal with
a blackmailer ? Yes, it all fell into pattern.
David's haste, his excitement--his fierce, almost angry, lovemaking. And, later, his
renouncement of her. "I'd better clear
out... " Yes, it fitted.
From a long way away, she heard
Rowley's voice asking:
"What's the matter, Lynn? Are you
feeling all right ?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, for heaven's sake, don't look so
glum." He turned, looking down the hillside
to Long Willows. "Thank goodness, we can have the place smartened up a bit
now--get some labour-saving gadgets put
225
inmake it right for you. I don't want
you to pig it, Lynn."
That was to be her homethat house.
Her home with Rowley . . .
And one morning at eight o'clock, David
would swing by the neck until he was
dead ...
226
CHAPTER III
with A pale determined face and watchful
eyes, David had his hands on Rosaleen's
shoulders.
"It will be all right, I'm telling you, it will be all right. But you must keep
your head and do exactly as I tell you."
"And if they take you away? You
said that! You did say that they might
take you away."
"It's a possibility, yes. But it won't be
for long. Not if you keep your head."
"I'll do what you tell me, David."
"There's 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."
"They'll trap me into saying things I
don't mean."
"No--they won't. It's all right, I tell
you."
"No, it's wrong--it's been wrong all
along. Taking money that doesn't belong
to us. I lie awake nights thinking of it, David. Taking what doesn't belong to us.
227
God is punishing us for our wickedness."
He looked at her, frowning. She was
cracking--yes, definitely she was cracking.
There had always been that religious
streak. Her conscience had never been
quite stilled. Now, unless he was extremely
lucky, she'd break down completely. Well, there was only one thing to be done.
"Listen, Rosaleen," he said gently. "Do
you want me to be hanged ?"
Her eyes widened in horror.
"Oh, David, you wouldn't--they
couldn't--"
"There's only one person who can hang
me--that's 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 ?"
Yes, that had got home. She gazed at
him with wide, horrified eyes.
"I'm so stupid, David."
"No, you're not. In any case you
haven't got to be clever. You'll have to
swear solemnly that the dead man is not
your husband. You can do that ?"
She nodded.
228
"Look stupid if you like. Look as if
you don't understand quite what they're
asking you. That will do no harm. But
stand firm on the points I've gone over
with you. Gaythorne will look after you.
He's a very able criminal lawyer--that's
why I've got him. He'll be at the Inquest
and he'll protect you from any heckling.
But even to him stick to your story. For
God's sake don't try to be clever or
think you can help me by some line of
your own.53
"I'll do it, David. I'll do exactly what
you tell me."
"Good girl. When it's all over we'll
go away--to the South of France--to
America. In the meantime, take care of
your health. Don't lie awake at nights
fretting and working yourself up. Take
those sleeping things Dr. Cloade prescribed
for you--bromide or something.
Take one every night, cheer up, and
remember there7 s a good time coming \
"Now--" he looked at his watch. "It's
time to go to the Inquest. It's called for
eleven."
He looked round the long beautiful
drawing-room. Beauty, comfort, wealth ...
229
He'd enjoyed it all. A fine house. Furrowbank.
Perhaps this was Good-bye . . .
He'd got himself into a jam--that was
certain. But even now he didn't regret.
And for the future--well, he'd go on
taking chances. ^And we must take the
current when it serves or lose our ventures"
He looked at Rosaleen. She was watching
him with large appealing eyes and
intuitively he knew what she wanted.
"I didn't kill him, Rosaleen," he said
gently. "I swear it to you by every saint
in your calendar!"
230
CHAPTER IV
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
Lynn--they 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 Peacock . . .
Sergeant Vane . . .
Dr. Lionel Cloade . . .
"You were attending a patient professionally
at the Stag, when Gladys Aitkin
came to you. What did she say ?"
231
"She informed me that the occupant of
No. 5 was lying on the floor dead.53
"In consequence you went up to No.
5?"
"I did."
"Will you describe what you found
there ?"
Dr. Cloade described. Body of a man
. . . face downwards . . . head injuries . . .
back of skull . . . fire-tongs.
"You were of opinion that the injuries
were inflicted with the tongs in question
?"
"Some of them unquestionably were."
"And that several blows had been
struck ?"
"Yes. 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."
"Very proper. The man was dead ?"
"Yes. He had been dead for some
hours."
"How long in your opinion had he been
dead ?"
"I should hesitate to be very definite
about that. At least eleven hours--quite
possibly thirteen or fourteen--let us say
232
between 7.30 and 10.30 p.m. the preceding
evening."
"Thank you. Dr. Cloade."
Then came the police surgeon--giving 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.
"It was an assault of great savagery ?"
"Exactly."
"Would great strength have been needed
to inflict these blows ?"
"N-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 ex.
. <s
citement."
"Thank you. Doctor."
Details as to the condition of the body
followed--well nourished, healthy, age
about forty-five. No signs of illness or
disease--heart, lungs, etc., all good.
233
Beatrice Lippincott gave evidence of the
arrival of deceased. He had registered as
Enoch Arden, Cape Town.
"Did deceased produce a ration book ?" ^ "No, sir."
-- "Did you ask him for one ?"
"Not at first. I did not know how long
he was staying."
"But you did eventually ask him ?"
"Yes, 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."
"What did he say to that ?"
"He said he would give it to me."
"But he did not actually do so ?"
"No."
"He did not say that he had lost it?
Or had not got one ?"
"Oh, no. He just said, 'I'll look it out
and bring it along.' "
"Miss Lippincott, did you, on the night
of Saturday, overhear a certain conversation
?"
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.
234
"Thank you. Did you mention this
conversation you had overheard to anybody
?"
"Yes, I told Mr. Rowley Cloade."
"Why did you tell Mr. Cloade ?"
"I thought he ought to know." Beatrice
flushed.
A tall thin man (Mr. Claythorne) rose
and asked permission to put a question.
"In 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 ?"
"No--no--he didn't."
"In fact he spoke of "Robert Underhay5 as though Robert Underhay was quite
another person?"
"Yes--yes, he did."
"Thank you, Mr. Coroner, that was all
I wanted to get clear."
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.
"His last words to you were, 'I don't
think you'll prove that without my co235
operation ?' (That'--being the fact that
Robert Underhay was still alive."
"That's what he said, yes. And he
laughed."
"He laughed, did he? What did you
take those words to mean ?"
"Well--I just thought he was trying to
get me to make him an offer, but afterwards
I got thinking--"
"Yes, Mr. Cloade--but 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."
Rowley nodded.
"That's right."
"What time was it when you left the
deceased ?"
"As nearly as I can tell it was five
minutes to nine."
"What made you fix on that time ?"
"As I went along the street I heard
the nine o'clock chimes through an open
window."
"Did the deceased mention at what
time he was expecting this client ?"
236
 35
"He said 'At any minute.3
"He did not mention any name ?"
"No."
"David Hunter!"
There was just a faint soft buzz as the
inhabitants of Warmsley Vale craned their
necks to look at the tall thin bitterlooking
young man who stood defiantly
facing the coroner.
The preliminaries went rapidly. The
coroner continued:
"You went to see the deceased on
Saturday evening ?"
"Yes. I received a letter from him
asking for assistance and stating he had
known my sister's first husband in Africa."
"You have got that letter ?"
"No, I don't keep letters."
"You have heard the account given by
Beatrice Lippincott of your conversation
with the deceased. Is that a true account ?"
"Quite 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."
237
"Did he tell you that Robert Underhay
was still alive ?"
David smiled:
"Certainly not. He said, 'If Robert
were still alive I know he would help
me/ "
"That is quite different from what
Beatrice Lippincott tells us ?"
"Eavesdroppers," said David, "usually
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."
Beatrice flounced angrily and exclaimed, "Well, I never--" The coroner said repressively, "Silence, please."
"Now Mr. Hunter, did you visit the
deceased again on the night of Tuesday--"
"No, I did not."
"You have heard Mr. Rowley Cloade
say that the deceased expected a visitor ?"
"He may have expected a visitor. If so, I was not that visitor. I'd given him
a river before. I thought that was quite
enough for him. There was no proof
that he'd ever known Robert Underhay.
My sister, since she inherited a large
income from her husband, has been the
238
target of every begging letter-writer and
every sponger in the neighbourhood."
Quietly he let his eyes pass over the
assembled Cloades.
"Mr. Hunter, will you tell us where
you were on the evening of Tuesday ?"
"Find out! "said David.
"Mr. Hunter!" The coroner rapped the
table. "That is a most foolish and illadvised
thing to say."
"Why should I tell you where I was,
and what I was doing? Time enough
for that when you accuse me of murdering
the man."
"If you persist in that attitude it may
come to that sooner than you think. Do
you recognise thisy Mr. Hunter?"
Leaning forward, David took the gold
cigarette lighter into his hand. His face
was puzzled. Handing it back, he said
slowly: "Yes, it's mine."
"When did you have it last ?"
"I missed it--" He paused.
"Yes, Mr. Hunter?" The coroner's
voice was suave.
Gaythorne fidgeted, seemed about to
speak. But David was too quick for him.
"I had it last Friday--Friday morn239
ing. I don't remember seeing it since."
Mr. Gaythorne rose.
"With your permission, Mr. Coroner.
You visited the deceased Saturday evening.
Might you not have left the lighter
there then ?"
cc! might have, I suppose," David said
slowly. "I certainly don't remember seeing
it after Friday--" He added: "Where
was it found ?"
The coroner said:
"We shall go into that later. You can
stand down now, Mr. Hunter."
David moved slowly back to his seat.
He bent his head and whispered to Rosaleen
Cloade:
"Major Porter."
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.
"You are George Douglas Porter, late
Major of the Royal African Rifles ?"
"Yes."
"How well did you know Robert Underhay
?"
240
In a parade-ground voice Major Porter
barked out places and dates.
"You have viewed the body of the
deceased ?"
"Yes."
"Can you identify that body ?"
"Yes. It is the body of Robert Underhay.53
A
buzz of excitement went round the
court.
"You state that positively and without
the least doubt ?"
"I do.55
"There is no possibility of your being
mistaken ?"
"None."
"Thank you. Major Porter. Mrs. Gordon
Cloade."
Rosaleen rose. She passed Major Porter.
He looked at her with some curiosity.
She did not even glance at him.
"Mrs. Cloade, you were taken by the
police to see the body of the deceased ?"
She shivered.
"Yes."
"You stated definitely that it was the
body of a man completely unknown to you ?"
"Yes."
241
"In view of the statement just made
by Major Porter would you like to withdraw
or amend your own statement ?"
"No."
"You still assert definitely that the body
was not that of your husband, Robert
Underhay ?"
"It was not my husband's body. It was -a man I had never seen in my life."
"Come now, Mrs. Cloade, Major Porter
has definitely recognised it as the body
of his friend Robert Underhay."
Rosaleen said expressionlessly:
"Major Porter is mistaken."
"You 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 ?"
"I am prepared to swear that it is not
the body of my husband but of a man
quite unknown to me."
Her voice was clear and unfaltering.
Her eyes met the coroner unshrinkingly.
He murmured: "You can stand down."
Then, removing his pince-nez, he addressed
the jury.
242
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 verdict--wilful
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 Underhay's 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 Porter's statement, Robert Underhay's 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
243
was needed before a case could be made
outevidence 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.
244
CHAPTER V
"I was afraid they'd do it," said the
coroner apologetically. "Local prejudice!
Feeling rather than logic."
The coroner, the Chief Constable,
Superintendent Spence and Hercule Poirot
were all in consultation together after the
inquest.
"You did your best," said the Chief
Constable.
"It's premature, to say the least of it,"
said Spence frowning. "And it hampers
us. Do you know M. Hercule Poirot?
He was instrumental in bringing Porter
forward."
The coroner said graciously:
"I have heard of you, M. Poirot," and
Poirot made an unsuccessful attempt to
look modest.
"M. Poirot's interested in the case,"
said Spence with a grin.
"Truly, that is so," said Poirot. "I
was in it, as you might say, before there
was a case."
And in answer to their interested glances
245
he told of the queer little scene in the
club when he had first heard a mention
of Robert Underhay's name.
"That's an additional point in Porter's
evidence when the case comes to trial,"
said the Chief Constable thoughtfully.
"Underhay actually planned a pretended
death--and spoke of using the name of
Enoch Arden."
The Chief Constable murmured: "Ah, but will that be admissible as evidence?
Words spoken by a man who is now
dead ?"
"It may not be admissible as evidence," said Poirot thoughtfully. "But it raises
a very interesting and suggestive line of
thought."
"What we want," said Spence, "is not
suggestion, but a few concrete facts.
Someone who actually saw David Hunter
at the Stag or near it on Tuesday evening."

"It ought to be easy," said the Chief
Constable, frowning.
"If it was abroad in my country it
would be easy enough," said Poirot.
"There would be a little cafe where someone
takes the evening coffee--but in pro246
vincial England!" He threw up his hands.
The Superintendent nodded.
"Some 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 o'clock
news. If you ever go along the main street
here between eight-thirty and ten it's
completely deserted. Not a soul."
"He counted on that?" suggested the
Chief Constable.
"Maybe," said Spence. His expression
was not a happy one.
Presently the Chief Constable and the
coroner departed. Spence and Poirot were
left together.
"You do not like the case, no?" asked
Poirot sympathetically.
"That young man worries me," said
Spence. "He's the kind that you never
know where you are with them. When
they're most innocent of a business, they
act as though they were guilty. And
when they're guiltywhy, you'd take your
oath they were angels of light!"
"You think he is guilty ?" asked Poirot.
"Don't you ?" Spence countered.
Poirot spread out his hands.
247
"I should be interested to know," he
said, "just exactly how much you have
against him ?"
"You don't mean legally? You mean
in the way of probability ?"
Poirot nodded.
"There's the lighter," said Spence.
"Where did you find it ?"
"Under the body."
"Fingerprints on it ?"
"None."
"Ah," said Poirot.
"Yes," said Spence. "I don't like that
too much myself. Then the dead man's
watch had stopped at 9.10. That fits
in with the medical evidence quite nicely
and with Rowley Cloade's evidence
that Underhay was expecting his client
at any minutepresumably that client
was almost due."
Poirot nodded.
"Yesit is all very neat."
"And the thing you can't get away
from, to my mind, M. Poirot, is that he's
the only person (he and his sister, that
is to say) who has the ghost or shadow
of a motive. Either David Hunter killed
Underhayor else Underhay was killed
248
by some outsider who followed him here
for some reason that we know nothing
aboutand that seems wildly improbable."
"Oh, I agree, I agree."
"You see, there's no one in Warmsley
Vale who could possibly have a motive
unless 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 hasn't been a hint or suggestion of
anything of the kind. The man was a
stranger to every one but that brother
and sister."
Poirot nodded.
"To 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."
"Again, mon ami, I agree with you
enthusiastically. Robert Underhay, alive
and kicking, is what the Cloade family
needs."
"So back we comeRosaleen and David
Hunter are the only two people who
have a motive. Rosaleen Cloade was in
249
London. But David, we know, was in
Warmsley Vale that day. He arrived at
5.30 at Warmsley Heath station."
"So 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."
"Exactly. Now take Beatrice Lippincott's
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."
"Only human as you say."
"Apart from knowing the girl, I believe
her because she couldn't have invented
some of the things. She'd never heard
of Robert Underhay before, for instance.
So I believe her story of what passed
between the two men and not David
Hunter's."
"I, too," said Poirot. "She strikes me
as a singularly truthful witness."
"We've confirmation that her story is
true. What do you suppose the brother
and sister went off to London for ?"
"That is one of the things that has
interested me most."
"Well, the money position's like this.
250
Rosaleen Cloade has only a life interest in
Gordon Cloade's estate. She can't touch
the capital--except, 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
quickly--in other words she had to pay a
blackmailer."
"You call that evidence against David Hunter P53
"Don't you ?"
Poirot shook his head.
"Evidence 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."
"Yes--yes, perhaps that is so. But he
may have changed his mind.35
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I know this type,35 said the Superintendent
thoughtfully. "It's a type that's
done well during the war. Any amount of
physical courage. Audacity and a reckless

TAF9
251

disregard of personal safety. The sort
that will face any odds. It's the kind
that is likely to win the V.C.--though,
mind you, it's often a posthumous one.
Yes, in wartime, a man like that is a
hero. But in peace--well, in peace such
men usually end up in prison. They like
excitement and they can't run straight, and they don't give a damn for society--
and finally they've no regard for human
life."
Poirot nodded.
"I tell you," the Superintendent repeated, "I know the type."
There was some few minutes of silence.
"Eh bien," said Poirot at last. "We
agree that we have here the type of a
killer. But that is all. It takes us no
further."
Spence looked at him with curiosity.
"You're taking a great interest in this
business, M. Poirot ?"
"Yes."
"Why, if I may ask ?"
"Frankly," Poirot spread out his hands,
"I do not quite know. Perhaps it is because
when two years ago, I am sitting
very sick in my stomach (for I did not
252
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," Poirot clasped
his stomach expressively, "in the smokingroom
of my friend's 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."
"The unexpected has happened, eh ?"
"On the contrary," Poirot corrected
him. "It is the expected that has happened
--which in itself is sufficiently remarkable."

"You expected murder ?" Spence asked
sceptically.
"No, 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
253
blackmailer may be silenced ? Ma foiy he
is silenced!"
"Well," said Spence, eyeing Poirot
rather doubtfully. "I suppose these things
run pretty close to type. It's a common
sort of crime--blackmail resulting in murder."

"Not interesting, you would say ? Usually, no. But this case is interesting, because, you see," said Poirot placidly, "it is all
wrong n
"All wrong? What do you mean by all
wrong ?"
"None of it is, how shall I put it, the
right shape ?"
Spence stared. "Chief Inspector Japp,"
he remarked, "always said you have a
tortuous mind. Give me an instance of
what you call wrong ?"
"Well, the dead man, for instance, he is all wrong."
Spence shook his head.
"You do not feel that?" Poirot asked.
"Oh, 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 morning--at
breakfast time ?"
254
"Yes, that's so. He admits receiving a
letter from Arden then."
"That was the first intimation, was it
not, of the arrival of Underhay in Warmsley
Vale? What is the first thing he does
bundles his sister off to London\"
"That's quite understandable,35 said
Spence. "He wants a clear hand to deal
with things his own way. He may have
been afraid the woman would have been
weak. He's the leading spirit, remember.
Mrs. Cloade is entirely under his thumb."
"Oh, 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 didn't know."
"But there's 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 couldn't know it for a fact
255
--because he had never met the man."
Poirot looked at Superintendent Spence
thoughtfully.
"So there is nothing there that strikes
you as--peculiar ?" he asked.
<c! know what you're driving at. Why
didn't Underhay say straight out that
he was Underhay? Well, I think that's
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 clear--if you know what I mean.
No--I don't think that that is so very
remarkable. You've got to allow for human
nature."
"Yes," said . Poirot. "Human nature.
That, I think, is perhaps the real answer
as to why I am interested in this case.
I was looking round the Coroner's Court, looking at all the people, looking particularly
at the Cloades--so 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
256
dependent. They all had their independent
means of existence. But they had
come, they must have come, consciously
or unconsciously, to lean on him. And
what happens--I will ask you this. Superintendent--What
happens to the ivy when
the oak round which it clings is struck
down ?33
"That's hardly a question in my line,35 said Spence.
"You 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 comes--that is, the moment
when you stand or fall on your own
feet."
"I don't really know what you are
getting at, M. Poirot.33 Spence looked
bewildered. "Anyway, the Cloades are all
right now. Or will be, once the legal
formalities are through.33
That, Poirot reminded him, might take
some time. "There is still Mrs. Gordon
Cloade's evidence to shake. After all, a
woman should know her own husband
when she sees him ?33
He put his head a little on one side
257
and gazed inquiringly at the big Superintendent.

"Isn't it worth while to a woman not to recognise her husband if the income of
a couple of million pounds depends on
it?39 asked the Superintendent cynically. "Besides, if he wasn't Robert Underhay, why was he killed ?"
"That,33 murmured Poirot, "is indeed
the question.3'
258
CHAPTER VI
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. Cloade's
house with its worn brass plate, and a
little way along was the post office. On
the other side was Jeremy Cloade's 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. Mary's 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,
259
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 recognised Rosaleen
Cloade.
She stood in the porch, fighting for
control, and there Poirot spoke to her, very gently:
"Madame, can I help you ?33
She showed no signs of surprise, but
answered with the simplicity of an unhappy
child.
"No,35 she said. "No one can help
**
me."
"You are in very bad trouble. That is it, is it not ?33
She said: "They've taken David away
. . . I'm all alone. They say he killed--
But he didn't! He didn't!33
She looked at Poirot and said: "You
were there to-day? At the inquest. I saw
you!33
"Yes. If I can help you, Madame, I
shall be very glad to do so.33
"I'm frightened. David said I'd be safe
as long as he was there to look after me.
But now they've taken him away--I'm
260
afraid. He said--they all wanted me dead.
That's a dreadful thing to say. But perhaps
it's true.5'
"Let me help you, Madame."
She shook her head.
"No,55 she said. "No one can help me.
I can't go to confession, even. I've got
to bear the weight of my wickedness
all alone. I'm cut off from the mercy of
God."
"Nobody," said Hercule Poirot, "is cut off from the mercy of God. You know
that well, my child."
Again she looked at him--a wild unhappy
look.
"I'd have to confess my sins--to confess.
If I could confess--"
"Can't you confess? You came to the
church for that, did you not ?"
"I came to get comfort--comfort. But
what comfort is there for me? I'm a
sinner."
"We are all sinners."
"But you'd have to repent--I'd have
to say--to tell--" Her hands went up
to her face. "Oh, the lies I've told--the
lies I've told."
"You told a lie about your husband?
261
About Robert Underhay? It was Robert
Underhay who was killed here, wasn't
it?"
She turned sharply on him. Her eyes
were suspicious, wary. She cried out
sharply:
"I tell you it was not my husband. It
wasn't the least like him!"
"The dead man was not in the least
like your husband ?"
"No," she said defiantly.
"Tell me," said Poirot, "what was
your husband like ?"
Her eyes stared at him. Then her face
hardened into alarm. Her eyes grew dark
with fear.
She cried out:
"I'll not talk to you any more!"
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.
"Ah," he said. "So that is that\"
He walked slowly out into the square.
After a momentary hesitation he followed
the High Street until he came to the
262
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 type--
though 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.
"We're very grateful to you, M. Poirot,"
said Rowley. "By Jove, it really was
quite like a conjuring trick."
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 amount of rabbits produced from the
conjurer's hat.
263
"How you go about these things beats
me," 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.
"Anyway, Lynn and I are no end
grateful," 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.
"It's going to make a lot of difference
to our future married life," said Rowley.
Lynn said sharply:
"How do you know? There are all
sorts of formalities and things, I'm sure."
"You are getting married, when ?" asked
Poirot politely.
"June."
"And you have been engaged since
when ?"
"Nearly six years," said Rowley. "Lynn's
just come out of the Wrens."
"And is it forbidden to marry in the
Wrens, yes ?"
Lynn said briefly:
"I've been overseas."
264
Poirot noticed Rowley's swift frown. He
said shortly:
"Come on, Lynn. We must get going.
I expect M. Poirot wants to get back to
town."
Poirot said smilingly:
"But Fm not going back to town."
"What ?"
Rowley stopped dead, giving a queer
wooden effect.
"I am staying here, at the Stag, for a
short while."
"Butbut why ?"
"C'est un beau paysage," Poirot said
placidly.
Rowley said uncertainly:
"Yes, of course . . . But aren't you
well, I mean, busy ?"
"I have made my economies," said
Poirot, smiling. "I 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."
He saw Lynn Marchmont raise her head
and gaze at him intently. Rowley, he
thought, was slightly annoyed.
"I suppose you play golf?" he said.
265
"There's a much better hotel at Warmsley
Heath. This is a very one-horse sort of
place."
"My interests," said Poirot, "lie entirely
in Warmsley Vale."
Lynn said:
"Come along, Rowley."
Half reluctantly, Rowley followed her.
At the door, Lynn paused and then came
swiftly back. She spoke to Poirot in a
quiet low voice.
"They arrested David Hunter after the
inquest. Do youdo you think they were
right ?"
"They had no alternative. Mademoiselle,
after the verdict."
"I meando you think he did it ?"
"Do you ?" said Poirot.
But Rowley was back at her side. Her
face hardened to a poker smoothness. She
said:
"Good-bye, M. Poirot. II hope we
meet again."
"Now, I wonder," said Poirot to himself.
Presently, after arranging with Beatrice
Lippincott about a room, he went out
again. His steps led him to Dr. Lionel
Cloade's house.
266
"Oh!" said Aunt Kathie, who opened
the door, taking a step or two backwards.
"M. Poirot!"
"At your service, Madame." Poirot
bowed. "I came to pay my respects."
"Well, that's very nice of you, I'm
sure. YeswellI suppose you'd better
come in. Sit downI'll move Madame
Blavatskyand perhaps a cup of tea
only the cake is terribly stale. I meant
to go to Peacocks for some, they do
have Swiss roll sometimes on a Wednesday
but an inquest puts one's household
routine out, don't you think so ?"
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 Kathie's
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:
"You won't tell my husband, will you,
that I came and consulted you about
well, about we know what ?"
"My lips are sealed."
267
"I mean--of course I'd no idea at the
time--that Robert Underhay, poor man, so tragic--was actually in Warmsley Vale.
That seems to me still a most extraordinary coincidence!"
"It would have been simpler," agreed
Poirot, "if the Ouija board had directed
you straight to the Stag."
Aunt Kathie cheered up a little at the
mention of the Ouija board.
"The way things come about in the
spirit world seem quite incalculable," she
said. "But I do feel, M. Poirot, that there
is a purpose in it all ? Don't you feel that
in life? That there is always a purpose ?"
"Yes, indeed, Madame. Even that I
should sit here, now, in your drawingroom,
there is a purpose in that."
"Oh, is there?" Mrs. Cloade looked
rather taken aback. "Is there, really ? Yes, I suppose so ... You're on your way
back to London, of course ?"
"Not at present. I stay for a few days
at the Stag."
"At the Stag~> Oh--at the Stag! But
that's where--oh, M. Poirot, do you think
you are wise ?"
268
"I have been guided to the Stag," said
Poirot solemnly.
"Guided? What do you mean ?"
"Guided by you."
"Oh, but I never meant--I mean, I
had no idea. It's all so dreadful, don't
you think so ?"
Poirot shook his head sadly, and
said:
"I have been talking to Mr. Rowley
Cloade and Miss Marchmont. They are
getting married, I hear, quite soon ?"
Aunt Kathie was immediately diverted.
"Dear Lynn, she is such a sweet girl--
and so very good at figures. Now, I
have no head for figures--no 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 possibly--well, 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 war--
oh, quite rightly, of course--I mean the
Government wanted him to--that side
of it is quite all right--not white feathers
269
or things like that as they did in the
Boer Warbut what I mean is, it's made
him rather limited in his ideas."
"Six years' engagement is a good test
of affection.M
"Oh, it is\ But I think these girls,
when they come home, they get rather
restlessand if there is someone else about
someone, perhaps, who has led an
adventurous life"
"Such as David Hunter ?"
"There isn't anything between them."
Aunt Kathie said anxiously. "Nothing at
all. I'm quite sure of that! It would
have been dreadful if there had been,
wouldn't there, with his turning out a
murderer? His own brother-in-law, too!
Oh, no, M. Poirot, please don't run away
with the idea that there's any kind of an
understanding between Lynn and David.
Really, they seemed to quarrel more than
anything else every time they met. What I
feel is thatoh, dear, I think that's my
husband coming. You will remember,
won't you, M. Poirot, not a word about
our first meeting ? My poor dear husband
gets so annoyed if he thinks thatoh,
Lionel dear, here is M. Poirot who so
270
cleverly brought that Major Porter down
to see the body."
Dr. Cloade looked tired and haggard.
His eyes, pale blue, with pin-point pupils,
wandered vaguely round the room.
"How do you do, M. Poirot, on your
way back to town ?"
"Mon DieU) another who packs me back
to London!53 thought Poirot.
Aloud he said patiently:
"No, I remain at the Stag for a day
or so."
"The Stag?" Lionel Cloade frowned.
"Oh? Police want to keep you here for
a bit ?"
"No. It is my own choice."
"Indeed ?" The doctor suddenly flashed
a quick intelligent look. "So you're not
satisfied ?"
"Why should you think that. Dr.
Cloade ?"
"Come, man, it's true, isn't it?" Twittering
about tea, Mrs Cloade left the
room. The doctor went on: "You've a
feeling, haven't you, that something's
wrong ?"
Poirot was startled.
"It is odd that you should say
271
that. Do you, then, feel that yourself?53
Cloade hesitated.
"N-n-o. Hardly that . . . perhaps it's
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."
"Was there anything unsatisfactory about
the medical aspect/of the case? I ask unofficially, of course."
Dr. Cloade said thoughtfully:
"No, I don't think so."
"Yes--there is something. I can see
there is something."
When he wished, Poirot's voice could
assume an almost hypnotic quality. Dr. Cloade frowned a little, then he said
hesitatingly:
"I've no experience, of course, of police
cases. And anyway medical evidence isn't
the hard-and-fast, cast-iron business that
laymen or novelists seem to think. We're
fallible--medical science is fallible. What's
diagnosis ? A guess, based on a very little
knowledge, and some indefinite clues
which point in more than one direction.
I'm pretty sound, perhaps, at diagnosing
measles because, at my time of life, I've
272
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 'typical
case5 of measles. But I've known some
queer things in my time--I've seen a
woman practically on the operating table
ready for her appendix to be whipped
out--and paratyphoid diagnosed just in
time! I've seen a child with skin trouble
pronounced as a case of serious vitamin
deficiency by an earnest and conscientious
young doctor--and 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!
"Doctors, like every one else, are victims
of the preconceived idea. Here's 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, I'd have suspected
something rather different--something
not so smooth and round--something--oh, I don't know, something with
273
a more cutting edge--a brick, something
like that."
"You did not say so at the inquest ?"
"No--because I don't really know. Jenkins,
the police surgeon, was satisfied, and he's the fellow who counts. But
there's the preconceived idea--weapon
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 it--well, I don't
know whether you'd say it, because it
really doesn't make sense--I mean if you
had two fellows, one hitting him with a
brick and one with the tongs--" The
doctor stopped, shook his head in a dissatisfied
way. "Doesn't make sense, does
it ?" he said to Poirot.
"Could he have fallen on some sharp
object ?"
Dr. Cloade shook his head.
"He was lying face down in the middle
of the floor--on a good thick old-fashioned
Axminster carpet."
He broke off as his wife entered the
room.
"Here's Kathie with the cat-lap." he
remarked.
274
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.
"I think the kettle was boiling," she
remarked doubtfully as she raised the lid
of the teapot and peered inside.
Dr. Cloade snorted again and muttered:
"Cat-lap," with which explosive word he
left the room.
"Poor 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 didn't 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. He's writing a book on it. He was
looking forward to a quiet life and doing
the necessary research. But then, when
Gordon died like that--well, you know
what things are, M. Poirot, nowadays.
Taxation and everything. He can't afford
to retire and it's made him very bitter.
And really it does seem unfair. Gordon's
275
dying like that, without a willwell, it
really quite shook my faith. I mean, I
really couldn't see the purpose in that. It
seemed, I couldn't help feeling, a mistake."
She sighed, then cheered up a little.
"But I get some lovely reassurances
from the other side. 'Courage and patience
and a way will be found.' And really,
when that nice Major Porter stood up
to-day and said in such a firm manly way
that the poor murdered man was Robert
Underhaywell, I saw that a way had
been found! It's wonderful, isn't it, M.
Poirot, how things do turn out for the
best ?33
"Even murder," said Hercule Poirot.
276
CHAPTER VII
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 "Residents Only." Here
there was a good fire, but in a Targe
arm-chair, 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
277
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 stair^ case. Instead of turning to the left where
his own room. No. n, 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 "old-fashioned Axminster"
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 furnishings--a writingtable,
a chest of drawers of good oldfashioned
mahogany, an upright wardrobe
of the same (the one presumably that
278
masked the door into No. 4), a large brass
double bed, a basin with hot and cold
water--tribute to modernity and the servant
shortage--a large but rather uncomfortable
arm-chair, 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 firecurb
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.
"Yes,33 said Poirot thoughtfully to himself.
"Yes.33
He looked at the fitted washbasin. Then
he strolled to the window. It looked out
over some leads--the 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
279
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 arm-chair to the fire
and sat down.
The monumental old lady was even
more formidable seen close at hand. She
had iron-grey hair, a nourishing moustache
and, when presently she spoke, a deep
and awe-inspiring voice.
"This Lounge," she said, "is Reserved
for Persons staying in the hotel."
"I am staying in the Hotel," replied
Hercule Poirot.
The old lady meditated for a moment
or two before returning to the attack.
Then she said accusingly:
"You're a foreigner."
"Yes," replied Hercule Poirot.
"In my opinion," said the old lady,
"you should all Go Back."
"Go back where ?" inquired Poirot.
"To where you came from," said the
old lady firmly.
She added as a kind of rider, sotto voce:
"Foreigners!" and snorted.
280
"That," said Poirot mildly, "would be
difficult."
"Nonsense," said the old lady. "That's
what we fought the war for, isn't it?
So that people could go back to their
proper places and stay there."
Poirot did not enter into a controversy.
He had already learnt that every single
individual had a different version of the
theme. "What did we fight the war for ?"
A somewhat hostile silence reigned.
"I don't know what things are coming
to," said the old lady. "I really don't.
Every year I come and stay in this place.
My husband died here sixteen years ago.
He's buried here. I come every year for a
month."
"A pious pilgrimage," said Poirot
politely.
"And every year things get worse and
worse. No service! Food uneatable! Vienna
steaks indeed! A steak's either Rump or
Fillet steak--not chopped-up horse!"
Poirot shook his head sadly.
"One good thing--they've shut down
the aerodrome," said the old lady. "Disgraceful
it was, all those young airmen
coming in here with those dreadful girls.
281
Girls, indeed! I don't 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 'em off if
they've got young children. Young children, stuff and nonsense! Any one can look after a baby! A baby doesn't go
running round after soldiers. Girls from
fourteen to eighteen, they're the ones that
need looking after! Need their mothers.
It takes a mother to know just what a
girl is up to. Soldiers! Airmen! That's all
they think about. Americans! Niggers!
Polish riffraff!"
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.
"Why 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! Manmad,
that's what they are! Look at the
way they dress. Trousers! Some poor
fools wear shorts--they wouldn't if they
knew what they looked like from behind!"
282
cc! agree with you, Madame, indeed I
agree with you."
"What 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 nails--but red toe-nails I"
The old lady paused explosively and
looked at Poirot expectantly. He sighed
and shook his head.
"Even in church," said the old lady. "No hats. Sometimes not even those
silly scarves. Just that ugly crimped, permanently
waved hair. Hair ? Nobody knows
what hair is nowadays. / could sit on
my hair when I was young."
Poirot stole a glance at the iron-grey
bands. It seemed impossible that this
fierce old woman could ever have been
young!
"Put her head in here the other night,
one of them did," the old lady went on.
"Tied up in an orange scarf and painted
and powdered. I looked at her. I just
LOOKED at her! She soon went away!
"She wasn't a Resident," went on the
old lady. "No one of her type staying
here, I'm glad to say! So what was she
TAF10 283
doing coming out of a man's bedroom?
Disgusting, I call it. I spoke about it to
that Lippincott girl--but she's just as bad
as any of them--go a mile for anything
that wears trousers."
Some faint interest stirred in Poirot's
mind.
"Coming out a man's bedroom?" he
queried.
The old lady fell upon the topic with
zest.
"That's what I said. Saw her with my
own eyes. No. 5."
"What day was that, Madame ?"
"The 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 oldfashioned
type of place. But now--"
"And what hour of the day was this ?"
"Day? It wasn't day at all. Evening.
Late evening, too. Perfectly disgraceful.
Past ten o'clock. 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."
"You heard him speak ?"
284
"Aren't I telling you so? She dodges
back inside and he calls out, 'Oh, go on, get out of here. I'm fed up.' That's a
nice way for a man to talk to a girl! But
they ask for it! Hussies!"
Poirot said, "You did not report this
to the police ?"
She fixed him with a basilisk stare
and totteringly rose out of her chair.
Standing over him and glaring down on
him, she said:
"I have never had anything to do with
the police. The police indeed! /, in a police court ?"
Quivering 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.
"Oh, yes, M. Poirot, you mean old
Mrs. Leadbetter? Canon Leadbetter's
widow. She comes here every year, but of
course between ourselves she is rather a
trial. She's really frightfully rude to people
sometimes, and she doesn't seem to understand
that things are different nowadays.
She's nearly eighty, of course."
285
"But she is clear in her mind? She
knows what she is saying ?"
"Oh, yes. She's quite a sharp old lady--
rather too much so sometimes."
"Do you know who a young woman
was who visited the murdered man on
Tuesday night ?"
Beatrice looked astonished.
"I don't remember a young woman
coming to visit him at any time. What
was she like ?"
"She was wearing an orange scarf round
her head and I should fancy a good deal
of make-up. She was in No. 5 talking
to Arden at a quarter past ten on Tuesday
night."
"Really, M. Poirot, I've no idea whatsoever.35
Thoughtfully Poirot went along in search
of Superintendent Spence.
Spence listened to Poirot's story in
silence. Then he leaned back in his chair
and nodded his head slowly.
"Funny, isn't it ?" he said. "How often
you come back to the same old formula. Cherchez lafemme."
The Superintendent's French accent was
not as good as Sergeant Graves', but he
286
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.
"We had this indication all along that
there might be a woman mixed up in it," he said.
Poirot took the lipstick and smeared a
little delicately on the back of his hand. "Good quality," he said. "A dark cherry
red--worn by a brunette probably."
"Yes. 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
isn't the range of lipsticks there used to be
--just a few standard makes."
"And you have no doubt made your
inquiries ?"
Spence smiled.
"Yes," he said, "as 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 doesn't use
lipstick at all. Mrs. Marchmont uses a
pale mauve shade. Beatrice Lippincott
287
doesn^t appear to use anything as expensive
as this--nor does the chambermaid, Gladys."
He paused.
"You have been thorough,53 said Poirot.
"Not thorough enough. It looks now
as though an outsider is mixed up in it--
some woman, perhaps, that Underhay
knew in Warmsley Vale."
"And who was with him at a quarter
past ten on Tuesday evening ?"
"Yes," said Spence. He added with a
sigh, "This lets David Hunter out."
"It does ?"
"Yes. His lordship has consented to
make a statement at last. After his solicitor
had been along to make him see reason.
Here^s his account of his own movements."

Poirot read a neat typed memorandum.
Left London 4.16 train for Warmsley
Heath. Arrived there 5.30. Walked to
Furrowbank by footpath.
"His reason for coming down," the
Superintendent broke in, "was, according
to him, to get certain things he^d left
behind, letters and papers, a chequebook,
and to see if some shirts had come back
288
from the laundry--which, of course, they
hadn't. My word, laundry's a problem
nowadays. Four ruddy weeks since they've
been to our place--not a clean towel left
in our house, and the wife washes all my
things herself now.53
After this very human interpolation
the Superintendent returned to the itinerary
of David's movements.
"Left 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."
"In what direction did he go for a
walk ?" asked Poirot.
The Superintendent consulted his notes.
"Says by Downe Copse, Bats Hill and
Long Ridge."
"In fact, a complete circular tour round
the White House!"
"My word, you pick up local geography
quickly, M. Poirot!"
Poirot smiled and shook his head.
"No, I did not know the places you
named. I was making a guess."
"Oh, you were, were you ?" The Superintendent
cocked his head on one side.
"Then, according to him, when he was
up on Long Ridge, he realised he was
289
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 Shepherd's Court, arriving there
at eleven o'clock, which latter statement is
confirmed by Mrs. Gordon Cloade."
"And what confirmation have you of
the rest of it?"
"Remarkably little--but 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 didn't 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 late--shutting up greenhouses
or something and he caught sight
of him. Miss Marchmont met him up
by Mardon Wood--when he was running
for the train."
"Did any one see him catch the train ?"
"No--but he telephoned from London
to Miss Marchmont as soon as he got back
--at 11.05."
"That is checked ?"
290
"Yes, we'd already put through an
inquiry about calls from that number.
There was a Toll call out at 11.4 to Warmsley
Vale 36. That's the Marchmonts'
number."
"Very, very interesting," murmured
Poirot.
But Spence was going on painstakingly
and methodically.
"Rowley Cloade left Arden at five minutes
to nine. He's quite definite it wasn't
earlier. About 9.10 Lynn Marchmont
sees Hunter up at Mardon Wood. Granted
he's 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? We're going into it and I don't
think it can be done. However, now
we're starting again. Far from Arden
being killed at nine o'clock, he was alive
at ten minutes past ten--that is unless
your old lady is dreaming. He was either
killed by the woman who dropped the
lipstick, the woman in the orange scarf--or
by somebody who came in after that
woman left. And whoever did it, deliberately
put the hands of the watch back
- ^s
to nine-ten."
291
"Which if David Hunter had not happened
to meet Lynn Marchmont in a
very unlikely place would have been remarkably
awkward for him ?" said Poirot.
"Yes, 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 Hunter--indeed the station people
don't know him by sight. And he didn't
take a taxi at the other end. So we'd only
have his sister's word for it that he arrived
back at Shepherd's Court when he said
he did."
Poirot was silent and Spence asked:
"What are you thinking about, M.
Poirot ?"
Poirot said, "A long walk round the
White House. A meeting in Mardon
Woods. A telephone call later . . . And
Lynn Marchmont is engaged to Rowley
Cloade ... I should like very much to
know what was said over that telephone
call."
"It's the human interest that's getting
you ?"
"Yes," said Poirot. "It is always the
human interest."
292
CHAPTER VIII
it was getting late, but there was still
one more call that Poirot wanted to make.
He went along to Jeremy Cloade's house.
There he was shown into Jeremy
Cloade's study by a small intelligentlooking
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.
"Ah, pardon." Poirot put the photoframe
down in some confusion.
"My wife's father," said Jeremy, a
faint self-congratulatory note in his voice.
"And one of his best horses. Chestnut
Trenton. Ran second in the Derby in
1924. Are you interested in racing ?"
"Alas, no."
"Runs away with a lot of money,"
said Jeremy dryly. "Lord Edward came
293
a crash over it--had to go and live abroad.
Yes, an expensive sport."
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:
"What can I do for you, M. Poirot?
As a family, I feel we owe you a debt of
gratitude--for finding Major Porter to give
evidence of identification."
"The family seems very jubilant about
it," said Poirot.
"Ah," said Jeremy dryly. "Rather premature
to rejoice. Lot of water's got to
pass under the bridge yet. After all, Underhay's death was accepted in Africa.
Takes years to upset a thing of this kind
--and Rosaleen's evidence was very positive--very
positive indeed. She made a
good impression you know."
It seemed almost as though Jeremy
Cloade was unwilling to bank upon any
improvement in his prospects.
"I wouldn^t like to give a ruling one
294
way or the other," he said. "Couldn't say
how a case would go."
Then, pushing aside some papers with
a fretful, almost weary gesture, he said:
"But you wanted to see me ?"
cc! 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 ?"
Jeremy looked surprised.
"I don't think there's ever been any
idea of such a thing. He certainly didn't
make one before leaving New York."
"He might have made one during the
two days he was in London."
"Gone to a lawyer there ?"
"Or written one out himself."
"And got it witnessed? Witnessed by
whom ?"
"There were three servants in the
house," Poirot reminded him. "Three
servants who died the same night he
did."
"H'm--yes--but if by any chance he did do what you suggest, well, the will
was destroyed too."
"That is just the point. Lately a great
many documents believed to have perished
295
completely have actually been deciphered
by a new process. Incinerated inside home
safes, for instance, but not so destroyed
that they cannot be read."
"Well, really, M. Poirot, that is a most
remarkable idea of yours . . . Most remarkable.
But I don't think--no, I really
don't believe there is anything in it ...
So far as I know there was no safe in the
house in Sheffield Terrace. Gordon kept all
valuable papers, etc., at his office--and
there was certainly no will there."
"But one might make inquiries? "Poirot
was persistent. "From the A.R.P. officials, for instance? You would authorise me
to do that ?"
"Oh, certainly--certainly. Very kind of
you to offer to undertake such a thing.
But I haven't any belief whatever, I'm
afraid, in your success. Still--well, it is
an offchance, I suppose. You--you'll be
going back to London at once, then ?"
Poirot's eyes narrowed. Jeremy's tone
had been unmistakably eager. Going back
to London . . . Did they all want him
out of the way ?
Before he could answer, the door opened
and Frances Cloade came in.
296
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.
"M. Hercule Poirot has come to see us, my dear," said Jeremy rather unnecessarily.

She shook hands with him and Jeremy
Cloade immediately outlined to her Poirot's
suggestion about a will.
Frances looked doubtful.
"It seems a very outside chance."
"M. Poirot is going up to London and
will very kindly make inquiries."
"Major Porter, I understand, was an
Air Raid Warden in that district," said
Poirot.
A curious expression passed over Mrs.
Cloade's face. She said:
"Who is Major Porter ?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"A retired Army Officer, living on his
pension."
"He really was in Africa ?"
Poirot looked at her curiously.
"Certainly, Madame. Why not ?"
She said almost absently, "I don't know. He puzzled me."
297
"Yes, Mrs. Cloade," said Poirot. "I can
understand that."
She looked sharply at him. An expression
almost of fear came into her eyes.
Turning to her husband she said:
"Jeremy, I feel very much distressed
about Rosaleen. She is all alone at Furrowbank
and she must be frightfully upset
over David's arrest. Would you object if
I asked her to come here and stay ?"
"Do you really think that is advisable,
my dear ?" Jeremy sounded doubtful.
"Ohadvisable ? I don't know! But one
is human. She is such a helpless creature."
"I rather doubt if she will accept."
"I can at any rate make the offer."
The lawyer said quietly: "Do so if it
will make you feel happier."
"Happier!"
The word came out with a strange
bitterness. Then she gave a quick doubtful
glance at Poirot.
Poirot murmured formally:
"I will take my leave now."
She followed him out into the hall.
"You are going up to London ?"
"I shall go up to-morrow, but for
twenty-four hours at most. And then I
298
return to the Stagwhere you will find
me, Madame, if you want me."
She demanded sharply:
"Why should I want you ?"
Poirot did not reply to the question,
merely said:
cc! shall be at the Stag."
Later that night out of the darkness
Frances Cloade spoke to her husband.
"I don't believe that man is going to
London for the reason he said. I don't
believe all that about Gordon's having
made a will. Do you believe it, Jeremy ?"
A hopeless, rather tired voice answered
her:
"No, Frances. Nohe's going for some
other reason."
"What reason ?"
"I've no idea."
Frances said, "What are we going to do,
Jeremy ? What are we going to do ?"
Presently he answered:
"I think, Frances, there's only one thing
to be done"
299
CHAPTER IX
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 servants' next-of-kin. "It is
possible," he said, "that 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."
The official to whom he was speaking
looked sceptical. The Games had come from
Dorset, Eileen Corrigan from County Cork.
300
Poirot next bent his steps towards Major
Porter's rooms. He remembered Porter's
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 Edge 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.
Poirot's heart sank as he interpreted the
signs.
The constable intercepted Poirot's advance.

"Can't go in here, sir," he said.
"What has happened ?"
"You don't live in the house, do you, sir ?" Poirot shook his head. "Who was it
you were wishing to see ?"
"I wished to see a Major Porter."
"You a friend of his, sir ?35
"No, I should not describe myself as a
friend. What has happened ?"
301
"Gentleman has shot himself, I understand.
Ah, here's the Inspector."
The door had opened and two figures
came out. One was the local Inspector, the other Poirot recognised as Sergeant
Graves from Warmsley Vale. The latter
recognised him and promptly made himself
known to the Inspector.
"Better come inside," said the latter.
The three men re-entered the house.
"They telephoned through to Warmsley
Vale," Graves explained. "And Superintendent
Spence sent me up."
"Suicide ?"
The Inspector answered:
"Yes. Seems a clear case. Don't know
whether having to give evidence at the
inquest preyed upon his mind. People
are funny that way sometimes, but I
gather he's been depressed lately. Financial
difficulties and one thing and another.
Shot himself with his own revolver."
Poirot asked: "Is it permitted that I
go up ?"
"If you like, M. Poirot. Take M. Poirot
up. Sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
Graves led the way up to the first302
floor room. It was much as Poirot remembered
it: the dim colours of the old rugs,
the books. Major Porter was in the big
arm-chair. His attitude was almost natural, just the head slumped forward. His right
arm hung down at his side--below it, on
the rug, lay the revolver. There was still
a very faint smell of acrid gunpowder in
the air.
"About a couple of hours ago, they
think," said Graves. "Nobody heard the
shot. The woman of the house was out
shopping."
Poirot was frowning, looking down on
the quiet figure with the small scorched
wound in the right temple.
"Any idea why he should do it, M.
Poirot ?" asked Graves.
He was respectful to Poirot because he
had seen the Superintendent being respectful--though
his private opinion was that
Poirot was one of these frightful old dugouts.

Poirot replied absently:
"Yes--yes, there was a very good reason.
That is not the difficulty."
His glance shifted to a small table at
Major Porter's left hand. There was a big
303
solid glass ashtray on it, with a pipe
and a box of matches. Nothing there. His
eyes roamed round the room. Then he
crossed to an open roll-top desk.
It was very tidy. Papers neatly pigeonholed.
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 death--of
course--that was it--that was what was
missing!
He said to Graves:
"Didn't he leave any note--any letter
for the coroner ?"
Graves shook his head.
"No, he didn't--sort of thing one would
have expected an ex-Army man to
do."
"Yes, that is very curious."
Punctilious in life. Major Porter had
not been punctilious in death. It was all
wrong, Poirot thought, that Porter had
left no note.
"Bit of a blow for the Cloades this,"
said Graves. "It will set them back. They'll
have to hunt about for someone else who
knew Underhay intimately."
304
He fidgeted slightly. "Anything more
you want to see, M. Poirot ?"
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.
"Can't seem to catch my breath properly.
'Eart, that's what it is. Angina
Pectoria, my mother died of--fell down
dead as she was crossing the Caledonian
Market. Nearly dropped down myself
when I found him--oh, it did give me a
turn! Never suspected anything of the
kind, though 'e 'ad been low in 'is spirits
for a long time. Worried over money, I
think, and didn't eat enough to keep
himself alive. Not that he'd ever accept a
bite from us. And then yesterday he 'ad
to go down to a place in Oastshire--
Warmsley Vale--to give evidence at an
inquest. Preyed on his mind, that did. He
come back looking awful. Tramped about
all last night. Up and down--up and
down. A murdered gentleman it was and
305
a friend of his, by all accounts. Poor
dear, it did upset him. Up and down--up
and down. And when I was out doing my
bit of shopping--and 'having to queue ever
so long for the fish, I went up to see if
he'd like a nice cuppa tea--and there he
was, poor gentleman, the revolver dropped
out of his hand, leaning back in his chair.
Gave me an awful turn it did. 'Ad to
'ave the police in and everything. What's
the world coming to, that's what I say ?"
Poirot said slowly:
"The world is becoming a difficult
place to live in--except for the strong."
306
CHAPTER X
it was past eight o'clock 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 drawingroom.
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.
"You said I should want you, M.
Poirot. You were quite right. There is
something that must be told--and I think
you are the best person to tell it to.53
"It is always easier, Madame, to tell a
thing to someone who already has a very
good idea of what it is."
"You think you know what I am going
to say ?"
307
Poirot nodded.
"Since when--"
She left the question unfinished, but
he replied promptly:
"Since 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."
She sighed--a deep unhappy sigh.
"Yes--yes, you're right--although 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
children--and now I've brought him to
his death--an ugly sordid death--"
She was silent for a moment or two.
Poirot said gently:
"You will tell me--"
She roused herself.
"Yes, the story has got to be told.
We were desperate for money--that's
where it begins. My husband--my husband
was in serious trouble--the worst kind
of trouble. Disgrace, perhaps imprison308
ment lay ahead of him--still 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 wasn't his sort
of plan in any case--it would have been
far too risky. But I've never minded
taking risks. And I've always been, I
suppose, rather unscrupulous. First of all, let me say, I applied to Rosaleen Cloade
for a loan. I don't 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.

"To 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 needn't repeat it
in detail. But it opened up the possibility
that Rosaleen's first husband might not
be dead--and of course in that case
she would have no right at all to any of
Gordon's money. It was, of course, only
309
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. He's been
in prison, I'm afraid, and he wasn't 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 didn't think that he would
go to the police about it--people like him
aren't fond of the police."
Her voice hardened.
"Our scheme went well. David fell for
it better than we hoped. Charles, of course, could not definitely pose as 'Robert
Underhay.' 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
310
Tuesday evening at nine o'clock. Instead
35
Her voice faltered.
"We should have known that David
was--a dangerous person. Charles is dead
--murdered--and but for me he would
be alive. I sent him to his death.53
After a little she went on in a dry voice:
"You can imagine what I have felt like
ever since."
"Nevertheless," said Poirot, "you were
quick enough to see a further development
of the scheme? It was you who
induced Major Porter to identify your
cousin as "Robert Underhay' ?"
But at once she broke out vehemently:
"No, I swear to you, no. Not that!
No one was more astonished . . . Astonished?
We were dumbfounded! when this
Major Porter came down and gave evidence
that Charles--Charles!--was Robert
Underhay. I couldn't understand it--I still can't understand it!"
"But someone went to Major Porter.
Someone persuaded him or bribed him--
to identify the dead man as Underhay ?"
Frances said decisively:
"It was not I. And it was not Jeremy.
3"
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 felt--indeed I still feel
--that we have a right to a portion of
Gordon's 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 Gordon's wife
at all--oh, no, indeed, M. Poirot, I would
not do a thing like that. Please, please., believe me."
"I will at least admit," said Poirot
slowly, "that every one has their own
particular sins. Yes, I will believe that."
Then he looked at her sharply.
"Do you know, Mrs. Cloade, that Major
Porter shot himself this afternoon ?"
She shrank back, her eyes wide and
horrified.
"Oh, no, M. Poirot--wo!"
"Yes, Madame. Major Porter, you see,
was au fond, an honest man. Financially
he was in very low water, and when
312
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 life 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 husband's fortune
to the detriment of his own flesh and
blood. It must have seemed tempting
to him to put a spoke in her wheel--no
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 cut . . . Yes--I can see the temptation
. . . 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 murder--and the identity
of the dead man supplied a very potent
motive for that charge.
313
"He went back home and faced things
squarely. He took the way out that seemed
best to him."
"He shot himself?"
"Yes."
Frances murmured: "He didn't say who
--who--"
Slowly Poirot shook his head.
"He had his code. There was no reference
whatever as to who had instigated
him to commit perjury."
He watched her closely. Was there an
instant flash of relief, of relaxed tension ?
Yes, but that might be natural enough
in any case . . .
She got up and walked to the window.
She said:
"So we are back where we were."
Poirot wondered what was passing in her
mind.
314
CHAPTER XI
superintendent spence, the following
morning, used almost Frances* words:
"So we're back where we started,39 he
said with a sigh. "We've got to find out
who this fellow Enoch Arden really was."
"I can tell you that. Superintendent," said Poirot. "His name was Charles Trenton."
"Charles
Trenton!" The Superintendent
whistled. "H'm! One of the Trentons
--I suppose she put him up to it--Mrs.
Jeremy, I mean . . . However, we shan't
be able to prove her connection with it. Charles Trenton ? I seem to remember--"
Poirot nodded.
"Yes. He has a record."
"Thought so. Swindling hotels if I
remember rightly. Used to arrive at the
Ritz, go out and buy a Rolls, subject to
a morning's trial, go round in the Rolls
to all the most expensive shops and buy
stuff--and I can tell you a man who's got
his Rolls outside waiting to take his
purchases back to the Ritz doesn't get
taf-h 315
his cheques queried! Besides, he had the
manner and the breeding. He'd stay a
week or so and then, just when suspicions
began to arise, he'd quietly disappear,
selling the various items cheap to the
pals he'd picked up. Charles Trenton.
H'm" He looked at Poirot. "You find
out things, don't you ?"
"How does your case progress against
David Hunter ?"
"We shall have to let him go. There
was a woman there that night with Arden.
It doesn't only depend on that old tartar's
word. Jimmy Pierce was going home,
got pushed out of the Load of Hay
he 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 officethat was just after ten.
Said it wasn't any one he knew, thought
it was someone staying at the Stag. "A tart
from London,' is what he called her."
"He was not very near her ?"
"No, right across the street. Who the
devil was she, M. Poirot ?"
"Did he say how she was dressed ?"
"Tweed coat, he said, orange scarf
round her head. Trousers and a lot of
316
make-up. Fits with the old lady's description.^

"Yes, it fits," Poirot was frowning.
Spence asked:
"Well, who was she, where did she
come from, where did she go? You
know our train service. The 9.20's the last
train up to London--and the 10.3 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 hitchhike
? We've sent out all over the place--
but no results."
"What about the 6.18 ?"
"It's always crowded--mostly men,
though. I think they'd have noticed a
woman--that type of woman, that's to say.
I suppose she might have come and left
by car, but a car's noticed in Warmsley
Vale nowadays. We're off the main road, you see."
"No cars noticed out that night ?"
"Only Dr. Cloade's. He was out on a
case--over Middlingham way. You'd think
someone would have noticed a strange
woman in a car."
"It need not have been a stranger,"
Poirot said slowly. "A man slightly drunk
317
and a hundred yards away might not
recognise a local person whom he did
not know very well. Someone, perhaps, dressed in a different way from their usual
way."
Spence looked at him questioningly.
"Would this young Pierce recognise, for instance, Lynn Marchmont? She has
been away for some years."
"Lynn Marchmont was at the White
House with her mother at that time," said Spence.
"Are you sure ?"
"Mrs. Lionel Cloade--that's the scatty
one, the doctor's wife--says she telephoned
to her there at ten minutes past ten.
Rosaleen Cloade was in London. Mrs.
Jeremy--well I've never seen her in slacks
and she doesn't use much make-up. Anyway, she isn't young."
"Oh, mon cher," Poirot leaned forward.
"On a dim night, with feeble street
lights, can one tell youth or age under a
mask of make-up ?"
"Look here, Poirot," said Spence, "what
are you getting at ?"
Poirot leaned back and half-closed his
eyes.
318
"Slacks, a tweed coat, an orange scarf
enveloping the head, a great deal of
make-up, a dropped lipstick. It is suggestive."

"Think you're the oracle at Delphi,"
growled the Superintendent. "Not that I
know what the oracle at Delphi was--
sort of thing young Graves gives himself
airs about knowing--doesn't help his police
work any. Any more cryptic pronouncements, M. Poirot ?"
"I told you," said Poirot, "that 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 eccentric--therefore he was
not Underhay. He could not be Underhay, for people do not change. The interesting
thing was that Porter said he was Underhay."
"Leading
you to Mrs. Jeremy ?"
"The likeness led me to Mrs. Jeremy.
A very distinctive case of countenance,
319
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 incomprehensible
--but 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? Someone
--or something has given her that fear.
And it is not that she fears losing her
fortune--no, it is more than that. It is for
her life that she is afraid ..."
"Good Lord, M. Poirot, you don't
think--"
"Let 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 Cloade's
life stands between them and the
320
enjoyment of Gordon Cloade's money--"
"Do you honestly think that one of them
would do that ?"
cc! think this. Rosaleen Cloade is twentysix,
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. Don't you think. Superintendent, that forty-four years may be too long
for someone to contemplate ?"
321
CHAPTER XII
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.
"So terrible about poor Major Porter,M she said. "I can't 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, I'm afraid
he never took advantage of the spiritual
opportunities. It would be all pukka and chota hazri and tiffin and pig-sticking--
the 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!"
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
322
of golden syrup began a gay career rolling
along the High Street.
"Thank you so much, M. Poirot," Aunt
Kathie grasped the cod. He ran after
the golden syrup. "Oh, thank you--so
clumsy of me--but really I have been
so upset. That unfortunate man--yes, it is sticky, but really I don't like to use
your clean handkerchief. Well, it's very
kind of you--as I was saying, in life we
are in death--and in death we are in life
--I 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. Why--
only the other night I--33
"You permit?" Poirot rammed the cod
firmly into the depths of the bag. "You
were saying--yes ?33
"Astral bodies,33 said Aunt Kathie. "I
asked, you know, for twopence--because
I only had halfpennies. But I thought
at the time the face was familiar--only I
couldn't place it. I still can't--but I
think now it must be someone who has
Passed Over--perhaps some time ago--
so that my remembrance was very uncertain.
It is wonderful the way people
323
are sent to one in one's needeven if it's
only a matter of pennies for telephones.
Oh, dear, quite a queue at Peacocks
they must have got either trifle or Swiss
roll! I hope I'm not too late!"
Mrs. Lionel Cloade plunged across the
road and joined herself to the tail end of
a queue of grim-faced women outside
the confectioner's 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 morningone of those
summer mornings in spring that have a
freshness denied to a real summer's 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 recognised her, which was not
324
surprising since he was not Robert Underhay,
and she, naturally, had not recognised
him for the same reason. But she had
sworn when shown the body that she
had never seen that man before. Did
she say that for safety's sake ? Or had she
been, that day, so lost in thought, 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 deckchair,
was Lynn Marchmont.
She jumped nervously when Poirot, in
a formal voice, wished her "Good morning!"

"You did startle me, M. Poirot. I
didn't hear you coming across the grass.
So you are still here--in Warmsley Vale ?"
cc! am still here--yes."
"Why ?"
325
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"It is a pleasant out-of-the-world spot
where one can relax. I relax."
"I'm glad you are here," said Lynn.
"You do not say to me like the rest of
your family, 'When do you go back to
London, M. Poirot?5 and wait anxiously
for the answer."
"Do they want you to go back to
London ?"
"It would seem so."
"I don't."
"No--I realise that. Why, Mademoiselle
?"
"Because it means that you're not satisfied.
Not satisfied, I mean, that David
Hunter did it."
"And you want him so much--to be
innocent ?^
He saw a faint flush creep up under
her bronzed skin.
"Naturally, I don't want to see a man
hanged for what he didn't do."
"Naturally--oh, yes!"
"And the police are simply prejudiced
against him because he's got their backs
up. That's the worst of David--he likes
antagonising people."
326
"The 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 coroner's
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.35
She said eagerly:
"Then they may let him go ?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Who do they think did it, M. Poirot ?"
Poirot said slowly: "There was a woman
at the Stag that night."
Lynn cried:
"I don't 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 wasn't ?
Why did he shoot himself? We're back
now where we started."
"You are the third person to use that
phrase!"
"Am I?" She looked startled. "What
are you doing, M. Poirot ?"
"Talking to people. That is what I
do. Just talk to people."
327
"But you don't ask them things about
the murder ?"
Poirot shook his head.
"No, I just--what shall we say--pick
up gossip."
"Does that help ?"
"Sometimes 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."
"Yes," said Lynn, "Rowley told me
that. He said she was like someone having
an afternoon out."
"Aha, he said that?" Poirot paused
and went on, "Yes, I know a lot of the
comings and goings. And I have heard a
lot about people's difficulties--yours and
your mother's, for example."
328
"There's no secret about any of us," said Lynn. "We've all tried to cadge money
off Rosaleen. That's what you mean, isn't it ?"
"I did not say so."
"Well, it's true! And I suppose you've
heard things about me and Rowley and
David."
"But you are going to marry Rowley
Cloade ?"
"Am I? I wish I knew . . . That's
what I was trying to decide that day--
when 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."
Poirot's face took on a curious expression.
Lynn misunderstood it. She
cried out:
"Oh, don't you see, M. Poirot, it's all
so difficult. It isn't a question of David
at all. It's me\ I've changed. I've been
away for three--four years. Now I've
come back I'm not the same person who
went away. That's the tragedy everywhere.
People coming home changed, having to
329
readjust themselves. You can't go away
and lead a different kind of life and not change!"
"You are wrong," said Poirot. "The
tragedy of life is that people do not
change."
She stared at him, shaking her head. He insisted:
"But yes. It is so. Why did you go away
in the first place ?"
"Why? I went into the Wrens. I went

on service."
"Yes, 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 ?"
"I could have, I suppsoe, but I wanted
_11
"You wanted to get away. You wanted
to go abroad, to see life. You wanted,
perhaps, to get away from Rowley Cloade
. . . And now you are restless, you still
want--to get away! Oh, no. Mademoiselle,
people do not change!"
"When I was out East, I longed for
home," Lynn cried defensively.
330
"Yes, 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 home . . . 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."
Lynn asked bitterly:
"So, according to you, I shall never be
satisfied anywhere ?"
cc! 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."
Lynn broke off a leaf and chewed it
meditatively.
"You're rather a devil at knowing things,
aren't you, M. Poirot ?"
"It is my metier," said Poirot modestly.
"There is a further truth, I think, that
you have not yet recognised."
Lynn said sharply:
"You mean David, don't you? You
think I am in love with David ?"
331
"That is for you to say," murmured
Poirot discreetly.
"And I--don't know! There's something
in David that I'm afraid of--but
there's something that draws me, too . . . "
She was silent a moment and then went
on: "I was talking yesterday to his Brigadier.
He came down here when he heard
David was arrested to see what he could
do. He's been telling me about David, how incredibly daring he was. He said
David was one of the bravest people
he'd 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 wasn't
sure, not absolutely sure that David hadn't
done this!"
"And are you not sure, either ?"
Lynn gave a crooked, rather pathetic
smile.
"No--you see, I've never trusted David. Can you love someone you don't trust ?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"I've always been unfair to David--
because I didn't trust him. I've believed
quite a lot of the beastly local gossip--
hints that David wasn't David Hunter at
all--but just a boy friend of Rosaleen's. I
332
was ashamed when I met the Brigadier
and he talked to me about having known
David as a boy in Ireland."
"C'est epatant," murmured Poirot, "how
people can get hold of the wrong end of
a stick!"
"What do you mean ?"
"Just what I say. Tell me, did Mrs.
Cloadethe doctor's wife, I meandid
she ring up on the night of the murder ?"
"Aunt Kathie ? Yes, she did."
"What about ?"
"Some incredible muddle she had got
into over some accounts."
"Did she speak from her own house ?"
"Why no, actually her telephone was out
of order. She had to go out to a callbox."
"At
ten minutes past ten ?"
"Thereabouts. Our clocks never keep
particularly good time."
"Thereabouts," said Poirot thoughtfully.
He went on delicately:
"That was not the only telephone call
you had that evening ?"
"No." Lynn spoke shortly.
"David Hunter rang you up from
London ?"
333
"Yes." She flared out suddenly, "I
suppose you want to know what he said ?"
"Oh, indeed I should not presume--"
"You're welcome to know! He said
he was going away--clearing out of my
life. He said he was no good to me and that
he never would run straight--not even for
my sake."
"And since that was probably true you
did not like it," said Poirot.
"I hope he will go away--that is, if he
gets acquitted all right ... I hope they'll
both go away to America or somewhere.
Then, perhaps, we shall be able to stop
thinking about them--we'll learn to stand
on our own feet. We'll stop feeling ill
will."
"Ill will ?"
"Yes. I felt it first one night at Aunt
Kathie's. She gave a sort of party. Perhaps
it was because I was just back from
abroad and rather on edge--but I seemed
to feel it in the air eddying all round us.
Ill will to her--to Rosaleen. Don't you
see, we were wishing her dead--all of us!
Wishing her dead . . . And that's awful, to wish that someone who's never done
you any harm--may die--"
334
"Her death, of course, is the only
thing that can do you any practical good."
Poirot spoke in a brisk and practical
tone.
"You 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 them
--it isn't good for one. Now, there she is, at Furrowbank, all alone. She looks like a
ghost--she looks scared to death--she
looks--oh! she looks as though she's going
off her head. And she won't let us help!
Not one of us. We've 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 won't have anything
to do with us now and I don't
blame her. She wouldn't even see Brigadier
Conroy. I think she's ill, ill with worry
and fright and misery. And we're doing
nothing about it because she won't let
us."
"Have^oM tried? You, yourself?"
"Yes," said Lynn. "I went up there
yesterday. I said, was there anything I
could do ? She looked at me--" Slid-
335
denly she broke off and shivered. "I think
she hates me. She said, 'You, least of
all.' 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
he's the only one of us she likes. She
thanked him and said he'd always been
kind. Rowley, of course, is kind."
"There are people," said Poirot, "for
whom one has great sympathygreat 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 listen"
With sudden resolution he got to his
feet.
"Come, Mademoiselle," he said, "let us
go up to Furrowbank."
"You want me to come with you ?"
"If you are prepared to be generous and
understanding"
Lynn cried:
"I amindeed I am"
336
CHAPTER XIII
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, wasn't up yet. However, she ushered
them into the drawing-room and went
upstairs with Poirot's message.
Poirot looked round him. He was contrasting
this room with Frances Cloade's
drawing-room--the latter such an intimate
room, so characteristic of its mistress.
The drawing-room at Furrowbank was
strictly impersonal--speaking only of
wealth tempered by good taste. Gordon
Cloade had seen to the latter--everything
in the room was of good quality and
of artistic merit, but there was no sign of
any selectiveness, no clue to the personal
337
tastes of the room's 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.
"I wonder," thought Poirot, "if the
other--"
Lynn broke the chain of his thought
by asking him of what he was thinking, and why he looked so grim.
"The 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 one's own home life. To catch, perhaps, a single glimpse of it when the
way back to it is barred--"
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.
"Oh, Miss Marchmont! Oh, sir, the
mistress--upstairs--she's very bad--she
doesn't speak and I can't rouse her and
her hand's so cold."
Sharply, Poirot turned and ran out of
338
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 lyingapparently 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:
"She has been dead some time. She
died in her sleep.53
"Oh, sirohwhat shall we do ?" The
parlourmaid burst out crying.
"Who was her doctor ?33
"Uncle Lionel," said Lynn.
Poirot said to the parlourmaid: "Go
and telephone to Dr. Cloade." She went
out of the room, still sobbing. Poirot
moved here and there about the room.
339
A small white cardboard box beside the
bed bore a label, "One powder to be
taken at bedtime." Using his handkerchief, he pushed the box open. There were
three powders left. He moved across to
the mantelpiece, then to the writingtable.
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.
"I don9! know what to do ... I can't
go on . . . Pve been so wicked. I must tell
someone and get peace ... 7 didn't mean
to he so wicked to begin with. I didn't know all that was going to come of it. I must
write down--"
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.
"David," Lynn started forward. "Have
they released you ? I'm so glad--"
He brushed her words aside, as he
brushed her aside, thrusting her almost
340
roughly out of the way as he bent over
the still white figure.
"Rosa! Rosaleen ..." He touched her
hand, then he swung round on Lynn,
his face blazing with anger. His words
came high and deliberate!
"So you^ve killed her, have you ? You've
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 don't care which it is!
You killed her! You wanted the damned
moneynow you've got it! Her death
gives it to you! You'll all be out of Queer
Street now. You'll all be richa lot of
dirty murdering thieves, that's what you
are! You weren't able to touch her so
long as I was by. I knew how to protect
my sistershe was never one to be able
to protect herself. But when she was
alone here, you saw your chance and you
took it." He paused, swayed slightly, and
said in a low quivering voice "Murderers."
Lynn cried out:
"No, David. No, you're wrong. None
of us would kill her. We wouldn't do
such a thing."
341
"One of you killed her, Lynn March-
mont. And you know that as well as I
do!"
"I swear we didn't, David. I swear we
did nothing of the kind."
The wildness of his gaze softened a little.
"Maybe it wasn't you, Lynn"
"It wasn't, David, I swear it wasn't"
Hercule Poirot moved forward a step
and coughed. David swung round on
him.
"I think," said Poirot, "that your
assumptions are a little over-dramatic.
Why jump to the conclusion that your
sister was murdered ?"
"You say she wasn't murdered? Do
you call this"he indicated the figure on
the bed"a natural death? Rosaleen
suffered from nerves, yes, but she had no
organic weakness. Her heart was sound
enough."
"Last night," said Poirot, "before she
went to bed, she sat writing here"
David strode past him, bent over the
sheet of paper.
"Do not touch it," Poirot warned him.
David drew back his hand, and read
the words as he stood motionless.
342
He turned his head sharply and looked
searchingly at Poirot.
"Are you suggesting suicide? Why
should Rosaleen commit suicide ?"
The voice that answered the question
was not Poirot's. Superintendent Spence's
quiet Oastshire voice spoke from the open
doorway:
"Supposing that last Tuesday night
Mrs. Cloade wasn't 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 ?"
David swung round on him. His eyes
were hard and angry.
"My sister was in London on Tuesday
night. She was there in the flat when I
got in at eleven o'clock."
"Yes," said Spence, "that's your story,
Mr. Hunter. And I dare say you'll stick
to it. But I'm not obliged to believe
that story. And in any case, isn't it a little
late"he gestured towards the bed
"the case will never come to court now."
343
CHAPTER XIV
"he won't admit it," said Spence. "But
I think he knows she did it." Sitting in
his room at the police station he looked
across the table at Poirot. "Funny how
it was his alibi we were so careful about
checking. We never gave much thought
to hers. And yet there's no corroboration
at all for her being in the flat in London
that night. We've only got his word that
she was there. We knew all along that
only two people had a motive for doing
away with ArdenDavid Hunter and
Rosaleen Cloade. I went bald-headed for
him and passed her by. Fact is, she seemed
such a gentle thingeven a bit halfwittedbut
I dare say that partly explains
it. Very likely David Hunter hustled her
up to London for just that reason. He
may have realised that she'd lose her
head, and he may have known that she's
the kind who gets dangerous when they
panic. Another funny thing: I've often
seen her going about in an orange linen
frockit was a favourite colour of hers.
344
Orange scarves--a 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 didn't tumble to it
that it must have been Mrs. Gordon herself.
I still think the girl wasn't quite
all there--wasn't 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."
"She had a sense of guilt, yes," said
Poirot.
Spence said thoughtfully, "She must
have attacked Arden in a kind of frenzy. I
don't suppose he had the Least idea of
what was coming to him. He wouldn't be
on his guard with a slip of a girl like
that." He ruminated for a moment or two
in silence, then he remarked, "There's
still one thing I'm not quite clear about. Who got at Porter? You say it wasn't
Mrs. Jeremy? Bet you it was all the
same!"
"No," said Poirot. "It was not Mrs.
Jeremy. She assured me of that and I
believe her. I have been stupid over that.
345
I should have known who it was. Major
Porter himself told me."
"He told you ?"
"Oh, indirectly, of course. He did not
know that he had done so."
"Well, who was it ?"
Poirot put his head a little on one side.
"Is it permitted, first, that I ask you
two questions ?"
The Superintendent looked surprised.
"Ask anything you like."
"Those sleeping-powders in a box by
Rosaleen Cloade's bed. What were they ?"
The Superintendent looked more surprised.

"Those ? 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."
"Who prescribed them ?"
"Dr. Cloade."
"When did he prescribe them ?"
"Oh, some time ago."
"What poison was it that killed her ?"
"Well, we haven't actually got the
report yet, but I don't think there's much
doubt about it. Morphia and a pretty
hefty dose of it."
346
"Was any morphia found in her possession
?"
Spence looked curiously at the other
man.
"No. What are you getting at, M.
Poirot ?"
"I will pass now to my second question,"
said Poirot evasively. "David 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 Shepherd's Court. Were there any
incoming calls ?"
"One. At 10.15. Also from Warmsley
Vale. It was put through from a public
call box."
"I see." Poirot was silent for a moment
or two.
"What's the big idea, M. Poirot ?"
"That call was answered ? The operator, I mean, got a response from the London
number."
"I see what you mean," said Spence
slowly. "There must have been someone in the flat. It couldn't be David Hunter
--he was in the train on his way back. It
looks, then, as if it must have been RosaTAF12
347
leen Cloade. And if so, Rosaleen Cloade
couldn't have been at the Stag a few
minutes earlier. What you're getting at, M. Poirot, is that the woman in the orange
scarf wasn^t Rosaleen Cloade. And if so, it wasn't Rosaleen Cloade who killed
Arden. But then why did she commit
suicide ?"
"The answer to that," said Poirot, "is
very simple. She did not commit suicide.
Rosaleen Cloade was killed!"
"What?"
"She was deliberately and cold-bloodedly
murdered."
"But who killed Arden? We've eliminated
David--"
"It was not David."
"And now you eliminate Rosaleen ? But
dash it all, those two were the only ones
with a shadow of motive!"
"Yes," said Poirot. "Motive. It was
that which has led us astray. If A has a
motive for killing C and B has a motive
for killing D--well, it does not seem to
make sense, does it, that A should kill D
and B should kill C ?"
Spence groaned. "Go easy, M. Poirot,
go easy. I don't even begin to under348
stand what you are talking about with
your A's and B's and C's."
"It is complicated," said Poirot, "it is
very complicated. Because, you see, you
have here two different kinds of crime--
and consequently you have, you must have, two different murders. Enter First
Murderer, and enter Second Murderer."
"Don't quote Shakespeare," groaned
Spence. "This isn't Elizabethan drama."
"But yes, it is very Shakespearian--
there are here all the emotions--the human
emotions--in which Shakespeare would
have revelled--the jealousies, the hates--
the swift passionate actions. And here,
too, is successful opportunism. ('There is a
tide in the affairs of men which taken at
its flood leads on to Fortune . . . ' Someone
acted on that. Superintendent. To
seize opportunity and turn it to one's
own ends--that has been triumphantly
accomplished--under your nose so to
speak!"
Spence rubbed his nose irritably.
"Talk sense, M. Poirot," he pleaded.
"If it's possible, just say what you mean."
"I will be very clear--clear as the
crystal. We have here, have we not, three
349
deaths? You agree to that, do you not?
Three people are dead."
Spence looked at him curiously.
"I should certainly say so ... You're
not going to make me believe that one
of the three is still alive ?"
"No, no," said Poirot. "They are dead.
But how did they die? How, that is to
say, would you classify their deaths ?"
"Well, as to that, M. Poirot, you
know my views. One murder, and two
suicides. But according to you the last
suicide isn't a suicide. It's another murder."
"According to me," said Poirot, c<''there
has been one suicide, one accident and one
murder."
"Accident? Do you mean Mrs. Cloade
poisoned herself by accident ? Or do you
mean Major Porter's shooting himself
was an accident ?"
"No," said Poirot. "The accident was
the death of Charles Trenton--otherwise
Enoch Arden."
"Accident!" The Superintendent exploded.
c<'Accident? You say that a particularly
brutal murder, where a man's head
is stove in by repeated blows, is an accident^
350
Quite unmoved by the Superintendent's
vigour, Poirot replied calmly:
"When I say an accident, I mean that
there was no intent to kill.53
"No intent to kill--when a man's head
is battered in! Do you mean that he
was attacked by a lunatic ?"
cc! think that that is very near the truth
--though not quite in the sense you
mean it."
"Mrs. Gordon was the only batty
woman in this case. I've seen her looking
very queer sometimes. Of course, Mrs.
Lionel Cloade is a bit bats in the belfry--
but she'd 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 ?"
"No. I know who it was. As I say, it was Porter himself who gave it away.
One simple little remark--ah, I could kick
myself, as you say, all round the town, for not noticing it at the time."
"And then your anonymous A B C
lunatic murdered Rosaleen Cloade?" Spence's voice was more and more sceptical.

351
Poirot shook his head vigorously.
"By 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."
He got up as he spoke and moved towards
the door.
"Hi!" cried Spence. "You've got to
give me a few names. You can't leave it
like this."
"In a very little while--yes, I will tell
you. But there is something for which I
wait--to be exact, a letter from across
the sea."
"Don't talk like a ruddy fortuneteller!
Hi--Poirot."
But Poirot had slipped away.
He went straight across the square and
rang the bell of Dr. Cloade's house.
Mrs. Cloade came to the door and gave
her usual gasp at seeing Poirot. He wasted
no time.
"Madame, I must speak to you."
"Oh, of course--do come in--I'm afraid
I haven't had much time to dust, but--"
352
"I want to ask you something. How
long has your husband been a morphia
addict ?"
Aunt Kathie immediately burst into tears.
"Oh dear, oh dear--I did so hope
nobody would ever know--it began in the
war. He was so dreadfully overtired and
had such dreadful neuralgia. And since
then he's been trying to lessen the dose--
he has indeed. But that's what makes him
so dreadfully irritable sometimes--"
"That is one of the reasons why he has
needed money, is it not ?"
"I suppose so. Oh, dear, M. Poirot. He
has promised to go for a cure--"
"Calm 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 ?"
"Oh, no, M. Poirot, not a soul."
"But I understood you had to borrow
tuppence because you had only halfpennies."
"Oh, yes. I had to ask a woman who
came out of the box. She gave me two
pennies for four halfpennies--"
353
"What did she look like, this woman ?"
"Well, rather actressy, if you know
what I mean. An orange scarf round her
head. The funny thing was that I'm
almost sure I'd met her somewhere. Her
face seemed very familiar. She must, I
think, have been someone who had passed
over. And yet, you know, I couldn't
remember where and how I had known
her."
"Thank you, Mrs. Cloade," said Hercule
Poirot.
354
CHAPTER XV
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
couldn't put things off any longer. She
must go to Long Willows and tell Rowley.
She owed him that at leastto tell him
herself. Not to choose the easy way of the
written word.
Her mind was made upquite made up
she told herself and yet she felt a
curious reluctance. She looked round her
and thought: "It's good-bye to all this
to my own worldmy own way of life."
For she had no illusions. Life with
David was a gamblean adventure that
was as likely to turn out badly as to turn
out well. He himself had warned her . . .
The night of the murder, over the
telephone.
355
And now, a few hours ago, he had
said:
"I meant to go out of your life. I was
a fool--to think I could leave you behind
me. We'll go to London and be married
by special licence--oh, yes, I'm not going
to give you the chance of shillyshallying
about. You've got roots here, roots that
hold you down. I've got to pull you up
by the roots." He had added: "We'll
break it to Rowley when you're actually
Mrs. David Hunter. Poor devil, it's the
best way to break it to him."
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.
"Hallo, Lynn, why didn't you ring up
and say you were coming? I might have
been out."
ce! want to talk to you, Rowley."
He stood aside to let her pass and
followed her into the big kitchen. The
356
remains of his supper were on the table.
"I'm planning to get an Aga or an Esse
put in here," he said. "Easier for you.
And a new sink--steel--"
She interrupted. "Don't make plans, Rowley."
"You mean because that poor kid isn't
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. She's dead
and in her grave and oh the difference
to me--or rather to us--"
Lynn caught her breath.
"No, Rowley. There isn't any 'us.'
That's what I came to tell you."
He stared at her. She said quietly,
hating herself, but steadfast in her purpose:

"J'm going to marry David Hunter,
Rowley."
She did not know quite what she
expected--protests, perhaps an angry outburst--but
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
357
stove, turning at last in an almost absentminded
manner.
"Well," he said, "let's get it clear?
You're going to marry David Hunter.
Why?"
"Because I love him."
"You love me."
"No. I did love you--when I went
away. But it's been four years and I've--
I've changed. We've both changed."
"You're wrong ..." he said quietly.
"I haven't changed."
"Well, perhaps you haven't changed so
much."
"I haven't changed at all. I haven't
had much chance to change. I've just gone
plodding on here. / haven't dropped from
parachutes or swarmed up cliffs by night
or wound an arm round a man in the
darkness and stabbed him--"
"Rowley--"
"7 haven't been to the war. / haven't
fought. / don't know what war is! I've
led a nice safe life here, down on the
farm. Lucky Rowley! But as a husband, you'd be ashamed of me!"
"No, Rowley--oh, no! It isn't that at
all."
358
"But I tell you it is!" 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 eyesshe
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
rage . . .
"Be quiet, Lynn, you'll listen to me
for a change. I've missed what I ought
to have had. I've missed my chance of
fighting for my country. I've seen my
best friend go and be killed. I've seen my
girlmy girldress up in uniform and
go overseas. I've been Just the Man She
Left Behind Her. My life's been hell
don't you understand, Lynn? It's been
Hell. And then you came backand
since then it's been worse Hell. Ever since
that night at Aunt Kathie's when I saw
you looking at David Hunter across the
table. But he's not going to have you, do
you hear? If you're not for me, then no
one shall have you. What do you think I
am?"
"Rowley".
She had risen, was retreating a step
359
at a time. She was terrified. This man
was not a man any longer, he was a brute
beast.
"Pve killed two people,^ said Rowley
Cloade. "Do you think I shall stick at
killing a third?"
"Rowley"
He was upon her now, his hands round
her throat. . .
cc! can't bear any more, Lynn"
The hands tightened round her neck,
the room whirled, blackness, spinning
blackness, suffocationeverything going
dark . . .
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.
"I hope," he said, "that I do not
intrude ? I knocked. Yes, indeed, I knocked,
but no one answered ... I suppose you
were busy ?"
For a moment the air was tense, electric.
Rowley stared. It looked for a moment
as though he might fling himself on
360
Hercule Poirot, but finally he turned away.
He said in a flat empty voice:
"You turned upjust in the nick of
time."
361
CHAPTER XVI
into an atmosphere quivering with danger
Hercule Poirot brought his own atmosphere
of deliberate anticlimax.
"The kettle, it is boiling ?" he inquired.
Rowley said heavily--stupidly--"Yes, it's boiling.55
"Then you will, perhaps, make some
coffee ? Or some tea if it is easier.53
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.
"There, Mademoiselle, if you fasten
that round your throat--so. Yes, I have
the safety-pin. There, that will at once
ease the pain."
Croaking hoarsely, Lynn thanked him.
The kitchen of Long Willows, Poirot
fussing about--it 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.
362
"There," he said, and over his shoulder:
"The coffee ?" he demanded.
"It's ready," said Rowley.
He brought it. Poirot poured out a cup
and took it to Lynn.
"Look here," said Rowley, "I don't
think you understand. I tried to strangle
Lynn."
"Tscha, tscha," said Poirot in a vexed
voice. He seemed to be deploring a lapse
of bad taste on Rowley's part.
"Two deaths I've got on my conscience,"
said Rowley. "Hers would have been the
thirdif you hadn't arrived."
"Let us drink up our coffee," said
Poirot, "and not talk of deaths. It is not
agreeable for Mademoiselle Lynn."
"My God!" 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.
"There, that is better, yes ?" said Poirot.
She nodded.
"Now we can talk," said Poirot. "When
I say that, I mean, really, that I shall
talk."
363
"How much do you know ?" said Rowley
heavily. "Do you know that I killed
Charles Trenton ?"
"Yes," said Poirot. "I have known that
for some time."
The door burst open. It was David
Hunter.
"Lynn," he cried. "You never told
me"
He stopped, puzzled, his eyes going
from one to the other.
^Whafs the matter with your throat?^
"Another cup," 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.
"Sit down," he said to David. "We will
sit here and drink coffee, and you shall
all three listen to Hercule Poirot while
he gives you a lecture on crime."
He looked round on them and nodded
his head.
Lynn thought:
"This is some fantastic nightmare. It
isn't real\"
They were all, it seemed, under the
sway of this absurd little man with the big
364
moustaches. They sat there, obediently--
Rowley the killer; she, his victim; David, the man who loved her--all holding cups
of coffee, listening to this little man who
in some strange way dominated them all.
"What causes crime?" Hercule Poirot
demanded rhetorically. "It is a question, that. What stimulus is needed?
What inbred predisposition does there
have to be ? Is every one capable of crime
--of some crime? And what happens--
that is what I have asked myself from
the beginning, what happens when people
who have been protected from real life--
from its assaults and ravages--are suddenly
deprived of that protection ?
"I 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 whose 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
365
lived in security--and a security which
was unnatural and artificial. Gordon Cloade
was always there behind them.
"What 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 way--whichever
it is, a man usually learns early just
what he is made of.
"But 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, 'If Rosaleen was to die--' "
Lynn shivered. Poirot paused, letting
the words sink in, then went on:
"The thought of death, her death,
366
passed through every mindof 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 became action."
Without a change of voice he turned to
Rowley:
"Did you think of killing her ?"
"Yes," said Rowley. "It was the day
she came to the farm. There was no one
else there. I thought thenI could kill
her quite easily. She looked pathetic
and very prettylike the calves I'd sent
to market. You can see how pathetic they
arebut you send them off just the same.
I wondered, really, that she wasn't afraid
. . . She would have been, if she'd known
what was in my mind . . . Yes, it was in
my mind when I took the lighter from
her to light her cigarette."
"She left it behind, I suppose. That's
how you got hold of it."
Rowley nodded.
"I don't know why I didn't kill her,"
he said wonderingly. "I thought of it.
One could have faked it up as an accident,
or something."
"It was not your type of crime," said
367
Poirot. "That is the answer. The man
you did kill, you killed in a rage--and
you did not really mean to kill him, I
fancy ?"
"Good Lord, no. I hit him on the
jaw. He went over backwards and hit
his head on that marble fender. I couldn't
believe it when I found he was dead."
Then suddenly he shot a startled glance
at Poirot:
"How did you know that ?"
"I think," said Poirot, "that 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
uncle's, 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 photograph---"
Rowley nodded.
"Yes, it was on the desk. I suddenly
realised the likeness. I realised too why
the fellow's face had seemed so familiar.
368
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 it--said David
Hunter was going to come across all
right with the money that very evening. I
just saw red when I realised 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."
There was a pause. Poirot said: "And
then ?33
"It was the lighter,35 said Rowley slowly.
"It fell out of my pocket. I'd 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 David's, not hers.
"Ever since that party at Aunt Kathie's
I'd realised--well, never mind all that.
I've sometimes thought I'm going mad--
perhaps I am a bit mad. First Johnny
going--and then the war--I--I can't talk
about things but sometimes I'd feel blind
with rage--and now Lynn--and this
369
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 tongs--well, I won't go into
details. I wiped off fingerprints, cleaned
up the marble curb--then I deliberately
put the hands of the wrist-watch at ten
minutes past nine and smashed it. I
took away his ration book and his papers
--I thought his identity might be traced
through them. Then I got out. It seemed
to me that with Beatrice's story of what
she'd overheard, David would be for it
all right."
"Thanks, " said David.
"And then," said Poirot, "you came
to me. It was a pretty little comedy that
you played there, was it not, asking me
to produce some witness 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
board--unconsciously, but it was a very
revealing incident.
370
"Eh bien, I perform my conjuring
trick." I flatter myself that I impress you
and really it is / who am the complete
mug. Yes and there in Major Porter's
room, he says, after he offers me a cigarette,
he says to you, 'You don't, do you ?'
"How 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 then--that
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 ever--
no, I am not the mug now, am I ?"
He looked round angrily and then went
on:
"But 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."
"He wrote to me he wouldn't go through
with it," said Rowley thickly. "The
371
damned fool. Didn't he see we'd gone
too far to stop ? I came up to try to drive
some sense into him. I was too late. He'd
said he'd rather shoot himself than perjure
himself when it was a question of murder.
The front door wasn't lockedI went up
and found him.
"I can't tell you what I felt like. It was
as though I was a murderer twice over.
If only he'd waitedif he'd only let me
talk to him."
"There was a note there ?" Poirot asked.
"You took it away ?"
"YesI was in for things now. Might
as well go the whole hog. The note was
to the coroner. It simply said that he'd
given perjured evidence at the inquest.
The dead man was not Robert Underhay.
I took the note away and destroyed it."
Rowley struck his fist on the table.
"It was like a bad dreama horrible
nightmare! I'd begun this thing and I'd
got to go on with it. I wanted the money
to get Lynnand I wanted Hunter to
hang. And thenI couldn't understand
itthe case against him broke down.
Some story about a womana woman
who was with Arden later. I couldn't
372
understand, I still can't understand. What
woman? How could a woman be in
there talking to Arden after he was dead ?"
"There was no woman," said Poirot.
"But, M. Poirot," Lynn croaked. "That
old lady. She saw her. She heard her."
"Aha," said Poirot. "But 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 turbanwise
and a face covered with make-up and a
lipsticked mouth. She saw that in a dim
light. And what did she hear? She saw
the 'hussy' draw back into No. 5 and
from within the room she heard a man's
voice saying, 'Get out of here, my girl.' Eh bien, it was a man she saw and a man she heard! But it was a very ingenious
idea, Mr. Hunter," Poirot added, turning
placidly to David.
"What do you mean?" David asked
sharply.
"It is now to you that I will tell a
story. You come along to the Stag at nine
o'clock or thereabouts. You come not to
murder, but to pay. What do you find?
You find the man who had been black373
mailing you lying on the floor, murdered
in a particularly brutal manner. You can
think fast, Mr. Hunter, and you realise
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 realise 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 realised 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.
"To 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.
"You go back to Furrowbank, letting
yourself in quietly with your key and you
374
help yourself to a scarf of your sister's,
you take one of her lipsticks, and you also
proceed to make up your face in a highly
theatrical manner.
"You 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, 'You'd better get out
of here, my girl.' "
Poirot paused.
"A very ingenious performance," he
observed.
"Is that true, David ?" cried Lynn. "Is
it true ?"
David was grinning broadly.
"I think a good deal of myself as a
female impersonator. Lord, you should
have seen that old gorgon's face!"
"But how could you be here at ten
o'clock and yet telephone to me from
London at eleven ?" demanded Lynn perplexedly.
David
Hunter bowed to Poirot.
375
"All explanations by Hercule Poirot," he remarked. "The man who knows everything.
How did I do it ?"
"Very simply," said Poirot. "You 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 'A call from London,5 or 'Go ahead London," something of that
kind ?"
Lynn nodded.
"Rosaleen Cloade then replaced the
receiver. You," Poirot turned to David, "carefully noting the time, dialled 34, got it, pressed Button A, said "London
wants you5 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."

Lynn said quietly:
"So that's why you rang me up, David ?"
Something in her tone, quiet as it was, made David look at her sharply.
376
He turned to Poirot and made a gesture
of surrender.
"No doubt about it. You do know
everything! To tell the truth I was scared
stiff. I had to think up something. After
I'd 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 she'd done it.
"And of course / hadn't the remotest
idea who had killed him! I simply couldn't
imagine who could have wanted to kill
him. Absolutely nobody had a motive
as far as I could see, except for myself and
Rosaleen."
"That," said Poirot," has 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."
David said sharply:
"She was killed, then? It wasn't suicide
?"
"No. It was a carefully-premeditated
well-thought-out crime. Morphia was substituted
for bromide in one of her sleeping377
powders--one towards the bottom of the
box."
"In the powders." David frowned. "You
don't mean--you can't mean Lionel
Cloade ?"
"Oh, no," said Poirot. "You 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."
"Lynn didn't have a motive," cried
David.
"We all had motives," said Lynn.
"That's what you mean ?"
"Yes," said Poirot. "That is what has
made the case difficult. David Hunter
and Rosaleen Cloade had a motive for
killing Arden--but 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
378
most to lose by her death." He turned his
head slightly, cc You killed her, Mr. Hunter
S9
"I ?" David cried. "Why on earth should
I kill my own sister ?"
"You killed her because she wasn't
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."

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, "It's not true. It can't
be true."
"Oh, 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 (Underhay's
wife was not a Catholic), troubled by
conscience, wildly devoted to David. Ima-

TAF13
379

gine his feelings on that night of the
Blitz, his sister dead, Gordon Cloade dying
all 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.
"He had a way with women," Poirot
added dryly, without looking at Lynn who
flushed.
"He 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.
"But imagine their consternation when
the first blackmailing letter arrives. All
along I have said to myself, 'Is Hunter
really the type of man to let himself
be blackmailed so easily?" 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 was her husband or not?
Why hurry her up to London before she
380
has a chance to catch a glimpse of the
man ? Because--there could only be one
reason--because 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 then--do a flit--go off to America.
"And then, unexpectedly, the blackmailing
stranger is murdered--and 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.
381
David Hunter will not be suspected since
the death of his sister means that her
money passes back to the Cloades.
"That was his trump card: lack of
motive. As I told youthis case was
always the wrong way round.55
The door opened and Superintendent
Spence came in.
Poirot said sharply, "Eh bien ?"
Spence said, "It's all right. We've got
him."
Lynn said in a low voice:
"Did hesay anything ?"
"Said he'd had a good run for his
money"
"Funny,53 added the Superintendent,
"how they always talk at the wrong
moment. . . We cautioned him, of course.
But he said, 'Cut it out, man. I'm a
gamblerbut I know when I've lost the
last throw.' "
Poirot murmured:
" 'There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at its flood, leads on to
fortune . . . '
Yes, the tide sweeps inbut it also ebbs
and may carry you out to sea."
91
382
CHAPTER XVII
it was a Sunday morning when Rowley
Cloade, answering a knock at the farm
door, found Lynn waiting outside.
He stepped back a pace.
"Lynn!"
"Can I come in, Rowley ?55
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.
"Pve come homey Rowley."
"What on earth do you mean ?55
"Just that. I've come home. This is
home--here, with you. I've been a fool
not to know it before--not to know
journey's end when I saw it. Don't you
understand, Rowley, I've come homey
"You don't know what you're saying, Lynn. I--I tried to kill you.55
"I know.55 Lynn gave a grimace and
put her fingers gingerly to her throat.
"Actually, it was just when I thought
383
you had killed me, that I began to realise
what a really thundering fool I'd been
making of myself!"
"I don't understand," said Rowley.
"Oh, don't be stupid. I always wanted
to marry you, didn't I? And then I got
out of touch with you--you seemed to
me so tame--so meek--I felt life would
be so safe with you--so dull. I fell for
David because he was dangerous and
attractive--and, 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 wasn't
for you, no one should have me--well--
I knew then that I was your woman!
Unfortunately it seemed that I was going
to know it--just too late . . . Luckily
Hercule Poirot walked in and saved the
situation. And I am your woman. Rowley!"
Rowley
shook his head.
"It's impossible, Lynn. I've killed two
men--murdered them--"
"Rubbish," cried Lynn. "Don't 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
384
a fender--that isn't murder. It's not even
legally murder."
"It's manslaughter. You go to prison
for it."
"Possibly. If so, I shall be on the step
when you come out."
"And there's Porter. I'm morally responsible
for his death."
"No, you're not. He was a fully adult
responsible man--he could have turned
down your proposition. One can't blame
any one else for the things one decides to
do with one's 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."
Rowley shook his head obstinately.
"It's no good, old girl. You can't marry
a gaolbird."
"I don't think you're going to gaol. A
policeman would have been round for
you before now if so."
Rowley stared.
"But damn it all, manslaughter--bribing
Porter--"
"What makes you think the police know
anything about all that or ever will."
"That fellow Poirot knows."
385
FR1;"He isn't the police. I'll 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 won't charge him
with it because it isn't necessary--and
besides, I believe you can't be arrested
twice on the same charge. But as long as
they think he did it, they won't look for
any one else.53
"But that chap Poirot--"
"He 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. He's rather a dear--"
"No, Lynn. I can't let you risk it.
Apart from anything else I--well, I mean,
can I trust myself? What I mean is, it
wouldn't be safe for you."
"Perhaps not . . . But you see, Rowley, I do love you-- and you've had such
a hell of a time--and I've never, really, cared very much for being safe--53
THE END
Books by Agatha Christie in the
Ulverscroft Large Print Series :
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A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED
DEATH COMES AS THE END
A CARIBBEAN MYSTERY
AT BERTRAM'S HOTEL
LORD EDGWARE DIES
EVIL UNDER THE SUN
THIRD GIRL
THE THIRTEEN PROBLEMS
DESTINATION UNKNOWN
THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY
CAT AMONG THE PIGEONS
4.50 FROM PADDINGTON
DEAD MAN'S FOLLY
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THE HOUND OF DEATH
MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS
THEY CAME TO BAGHDAD
MURDER IS EASY
THEY DO IT WITH MIRRORS
CROOKED HOUSE
DEATH IN THE CLOUDS
THE MIRROR CRACK'D FROM SIDE TO SIDE
ORDEAL BY INNOCENCE
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DEATH ON THE NILE
TAKEN AT THE FLOOD
ENDLESS NIGHT
TOWARDS ZERO
THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
DUMB WITNESS
MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA
THE CLOCKS
THE MOVING FINGER
SAD CYPRESS
ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE
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The Thirty-Nine Steps John Buchan
In Spite of Thunder J. Dickson Carr
The Saint on Guard Leslie Charteris
The Saint Around the World
Leslie Charteris
The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side
Agatha Christie
Ordeal by Innocence Agatha Christie
Cards on the Table Agatha Christie
Death on the Nile Agatha Christie
Endless Night Agatha Christie
Towards Zero Agatha Christie
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
Agatha Christie
Dumb Witness Agatha Christie
Murder in Mesopotamia Agatha Christie
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The Moving Finger Agatha Christie
Sad Cypress Agatha Christie
The Mists of Fear John Creasey
A Gun for Inspector West John Creasey
Send Superintendent West John Creasey
Nothing is the Number When You Die
Joan Fleming
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The Laughing Grave Victor Gunn
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Murder on the Orient Express
Agatha Christie
Murder is Easy Agatha Christie
They Do It With Mirrors
Agatha Christie
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Death Comes to Lady's Steps
W. Murdoch Duncan
The Missing Minx Richard Goyne
Exit Harlequin Cecil Freeman Gregg
The Crooked Staircase Victor Gunn
Death on Bodmin Moor Victor Gunn
Black Trinity T. C.H.Jacobs
Scales of Justice Ngaio Marsh
Saturday Out Laurence Meynell
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Hazard Chase Jeremy Potter
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