The A.B.C. Murders by Agatha Christie
“I suppose her husband’s death was a terrible shock to her?”
“Well, M. Poirot, if you understand what I mean, it wasn’t as much of a shock as it would have been to anyone in full possession of her health and faculties. Things are dimmed for Lady Clarke in her condition.”
“Pardon my asking, but was she deeply attached to her husband and he to her?”
“Oh, yes, they were a very happy couple. He was very worried and upset about her, poor man. It’s always worse for a doctor, you know. They can’t buoy themselves up with false hopes. I’m afraid it preyed on his mind very much to begin with.”
“To begin with? Not so much afterwards?”
“One gets used to everything, doesn’t one? And then Sir Carmichael had his collection. A hobby is a great consolation to a man. He used to run up to sales occasionally, and then he and Miss Grey were busy recataloguing and rearranging the museum on a new system.”
“Oh, yes—Miss Grey. She has left, has she not?”
“Yes—I’m very sorry about it—but ladies do take these fancies sometimes when they’re not well. And there’s no arguing with them. It’s better to give in. Miss Grey was very sensible about it.”
“Had Lady Clarke always disliked her?”
“No—that is to say, not disliked. As a matter of fact, I think she rather liked her to begin with. But there, I mustn’t keep you gossiping. My patient will be wondering what has become of us.”
She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor. What had at one time been a bedroom had been turned into a cheerful-looking sitting room.
Lady Clarke was sitting in a big armchair near the window. She was painfully thin, and her face had the grey, haggard look of one who suffers much pain. She had a slightly faraway, dreamy look, and I noticed that the pupils of her eyes were mere pinpoints.
“This is M. Poirot whom you wanted to see,” said Nurse Capstick in her high, cheerful voice.
“Oh, yes, M. Poirot,” said Lady Clarke vaguely.
She extended her hand.
“My friend Captain Hastings, Lady Clarke.”
“How do you do? So good of you both to come.”
We sat down as her vague gesture directed. There was a silence. Lady Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream.
Presently with a slight effort she roused herself.
“It was about Car, wasn’t it? About Car’s death. Oh, yes.”
She sighed, but still in a faraway manner, shaking her head.
“We never thought it would be that way round…I was so sure I should be the first to go…” She mused a minute or two. “Car was very strong—wonderful for his age. He was never ill. He was nearly sixty—but he seemed more like fifty…Yes, very strong….”
She relapsed again into her dream. Poirot, who was well acquainted with the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the impression of endless time, said nothing.
Lady Clarke said suddenly:
“Yes—it was good of you to come. I told Franklin. He said he wouldn’t forget to tell you. I hope Franklin isn’t going to be foolish…he’s so easily taken in, in spite of having knocked about the world so much. Men are like that…They remain boys…Franklin, in particular.”
“He has an impulsive nature,” said Poirot.
“Yes—yes…And very chivalrous. Men are so foolish that way. Even Car—” Her voice tailed off.
She shook her head with a febrile impatience.
“Everything’s so dim…One’s body is a nuisance, M. Poirot, especially when it gets the upper hand. One is conscious of nothing else—whether the pain will hold off or not—nothing else seems to matter.”
“I know, Lady Clarke. It is one of the tragedies of this life.”
“It makes me so stupid. I cannot even remember what it was I wanted to say to you.”
“Was it something about your husband’s death?”
“Car’s death? Yes, perhaps…Mad, poor creature—the murderer, I mean. It’s all the noise and the speed nowadays—people can’t stand it. I’ve always been sorry for mad people—their heads must feel so queer. And then, being shut up—it must be so terrible. But what else can one do? If they kill people…” She shook her head—gently pained. “You haven’t caught him yet?” she asked.
“No, not yet.”
“He must have been hanging round here that day.”
“There were so many strangers about, Lady Clarke. It is the holiday season.”
“Yes—I forgot…But they keep down by the beaches, they don’t come up near the house.”
“No stranger came to the house that day.”
“Who says so?” demanded Lady Clarke, with a sudden vigour.
Poirot looked slightly taken aback.
“The servants,” he said. “Miss Grey.”
Lady Clarke said very distinctly:
“That girl is a liar!”
I started on my chair. Poirot threw me a glance.
Lady Clarke was going on, speaking now rather feverishly.
“I didn’t like her. I never liked her. Car thought all the world of her. Used to go on about her being an orphan and alone in the world. What’s wrong with being an orphan? Sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise. You might have a good-for-nothing father and a mother who drank—then you would have something to complain about. Said she was so brave and such a good worker. I dare say she did her work well! I don’t know where all this bravery came in!”
“Now don’t excite yourself, dear,” said Nurse Capstick, intervening. “We mustn’t have you getting tired.”
“I soon sent her packing! Franklin had the impertinence to suggest that she might be a comfort to me. Comfort to me indeed! The sooner I saw the last of her the better—that’s what I said! Franklin’s a fool! I didn’t want him getting mixed up with her. He’s a boy! No sense! ‘I’ll give her three months’ salary, if you like,’ I said. ‘But out she goes. I don’t want her in the house a day longer.’ There’s one thing about being ill—men can’t argue with you. He did what I said and she went. Went like a martyr, I expect—with more sweetness and bravery!”
“Now, dear, don’t get so excited. It’s bad for you.”
Lady Clarke waved Nurse Capstick away.
“You were as much of a fool about her as anyone else.”
“Oh! Lady Clarke, you mustn’t say that. I did think Miss Grey a very nice girl—so romantic-looking, like someone out of a novel.”
“I’ve no patience with the lot of you,” said Lady Clarke feebly.
“Well, she’s gone now, my dear. Gone right away.”
Lady Clarke shook her head with feeble impatience but she did not answer.
Poirot said:
“Why did you say that Miss Grey was a liar?”
“Because she is. She told you no strangers came to the house, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then. I saw her—with my own eyes—out of this window—talking to a perfectly strange man on the front doorstep.”
“When was this?”
“In the morning of the day Car died—about eleven o’clock.”
“What did this man look like?”
“An ordinary sort of man. Nothing special.”
“A gentleman—or a tradesman?”
“Not a tradesman. A shabby sort of person. I can’t remember.”
A sudden quiver of pain shot across her face.
“Please—you must go now—I’m a little tired—Nurse.”
We obeyed the cue and took our departure.
“That’s an extraordinary story,” I said to Poirot as we journeyed back to London. “About Miss Grey and a strange man.”
“You see, Hastings? It is, as I tell you: there is always something to be found out.”
“Why did the girl lie about it and say she had seen no one?”
“I can think of seven separate reasons—one of them an extremely simple one.”
“Is that a snub?” I asked.
“It
“And suppose she tells us another lie.”
“That would indeed be interesting—and highly suggestive.”
“It is monstrous to suppose that a girl like that could be in league with a madman.”
“Precisely—so I do not suppose it.”
I thought for some minutes longer.
“A good-looking girl has a hard time of it,” I said at last with a sigh.
“Du tout. Disabuse your mind of that idea.”
“It’s true,” I insisted, “everyone’s hand is against her simply because she is good-looking.”
“You speak the bêtises, my friend. Whose hand was against her at Combeside? Sir Carmichael’s? Franklin’s? Nurse Capstick’s?”
“Lady Clarke was down on her, all right.”
“Mon ami, you are full of charitable feeling towards beautiful young girls. Me, I feel charitable to sick old ladies. It may be that Lady Clarke was the clear-sighted one—and that her husband, Mr. Franklin Clarke and Nurse Capstick were all as blind as bats—and Captain Hastings.”
“You’ve got a grudge against that girl, Poirot.”
To my surprise his eyes twinkled suddenly.
“Perhaps it is that I like to mount you on your romantic high horse, Hastings. You are always the true knight—ready to come to the rescue of damsels in distress—good-looking damsels, bien entendu.”
“How ridiculous you are, Poirot,” I said, unable to keep from laughing.
“Ah, well, one cannot be tragic all the time. More and more I interest myself in the human developments that arise out of this tragedy. It is three dramas of family life that we have there. First there is Andover—the whole tragic life of Mrs. Ascher, her struggles, her support of her German husband, the devotion of her niece. That alone would make a novel. Then you have Bexhill—the happy, easy-going father and mother, the two daughters so widely differing from each other—the pretty fluffy fool, and the intense, strong-willed Megan with her clear intelligence and her ruthless passion for truth. And the other figure—the self-controlled young Scotsman with his passionate jealousy and his worship of the dead girl. Finally you have the Churston household—the dying wife, and the husband absorbed in his collections, but with a growing tenderness and sympathy for the beautiful girl who helps him so sympathetically, and then the younger brother, vigorous, attractive, interesting, with a romantic glamour about him from his long travels.
“Realize, Hastings, that in the ordinary course of events those three separate dramas would never have touched each other. They would have pursued their course uninfluenced by each other. The permutations and combinations of life, Hastings—I never cease to be fascinated by them.”
“This is Paddington,” was the only answer I made.
It was time, I felt, that someone pricked the bubble.
On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told that a gentleman was waiting to see Poirot.
I expected it to be Franklin, or perhaps Japp, but to my astonishment it turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser.
He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more noticeable than ever.
Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit, but instead suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine.
Until these made their appearance he monopolized the conversation, explaining where we had been, and speaking with kindliness and feeling of the invalid woman.
Not until we had finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did he give the conversation a personal turn.
“You have come from Bexhill, Mr. Fraser?”
“Yes.”
“Any success with Milly Higley?”
“Milly Higley? Milly Higley?” Fraser repeated the name wonderingly. “Oh, that girl! No, I haven’t done anything there yet. It’s—”
He stopped. His hands twisted themselves together nervously.
“I don’t know why I’ve come to you,” he burst out.
“I know,” said Poirot.
“You can’t. How can you?”
“You have come to me because there is something that you must tell to someone. You were quite right. I am the proper person. Speak!”
Poirot’s air of assurance had its effect. Fraser looked at him with a queer air of grateful obedience.
“You think so?”
“Parbleu, I am sure of it.”
“M. Poirot, do you know anything about dreams?”
It was the last thing I had expected him to say.
Poirot, however, seemed in no wise surprised.
“I do,” he replied. “You have been dreaming—?”
“Yes. I suppose you’ll say it’s only natural that I should—should dream about—It. But it isn’t an ordinary dream.”
“No?”
“No?”
“I’ve dreamed it now three nights running, sir…I think I’m going mad….”
“Tell me—”
The man’s face was livid. His eyes were staring out of his head. As a matter of fact, he looked mad.
“It’s always the same. I’m on the beach. Looking for Betty. She’s lost—only lost, you understand. I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to give her her belt. I’m carrying it in my hand. And then—”
“Yes?”
“The dream changes…I’m not looking any more. She’s there in front of me—sitting on the beach. She doesn’t see me coming—It’s—oh, I can’t—”
“Go on.”
Poirot’s voice was authoritative—firm.
“I come up behind her…she doesn’t hear me…I slip the belt round her neck and pull—oh—pull….”
The agony in his voice was frightful…I gripped the arms of my chair…The thing was too real.
“She’s choking…she’s dead…I’ve strangled her—and then her head falls back and I see her face…and it’s Megan—not Betty!”
He leant back white and shaking. Poirot poured out another glass of wine and passed it over to him.
“What’s the meaning of it, M. Poirot? Why does it come to me? Every night…?”
“Drink up your wine,” ordered Poirot.
The young man did so, then he asked in a calmer voice:
“What does it mean? I—I didn’t kill her, did I?”
What Poirot answered I do not know, for at that minute I heard the postman’s knock and automatically I left the room.
What I took out of the letter box banished all my interest in Donald Fraser’s extraordinary revelations.
I raced back into the sitting room.
“Poirot,” I cried. “It’s come. The fourth letter.”
He sprang up, seized it from me, caught up his paper knife and slit it open. He spread it out on the table.
The three of us read it together.
Still no success? Fie! Fie! What are you and the police doing? Well, well, isn’t this fun? And where shall we go next for honey?
Poor Mr. Poirot. I’m quite sorry for you.
If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.
We’ve a long way to go still.
Tipperary? No—that comes farther on. Letter T.
The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September 11th.
So long.
A B C.
Twenty-one
DESCRIPTION OF A MURDERER
It was at this moment, I think, that what Poirot called the human element began to fade out of the picture again. It was as though, the mind being unable to stand unadulterated horror, we had had an interval of normal human interests.
We had, one and all, felt the impossibility of doing anything until the fourth letter should come revealing the projected scene of the D murder. That atmosphere of waiting had brought a release of tension.
But now, with the printed words jeering from the white stiff paper, the hunt was up once more.
Insp
The girl explained that she, too, had come up from Bexhill.
“I wanted to ask Mr. Clarke something.”
She seemed rather anxious to excuse and explain her procedure. I just noted the fact without attaching much importance to it.
The letter naturally filled my mind to the exclusion of all else.
Crome was not, I think, any too pleased to see the various participants in the drama. He became extremely official and noncommittal.
“I’ll take this with me, M. Poirot. If you care to take a copy of it—”
“No, no, it is not necessary.”
“What are your plans, inspector?” asked Clarke.
“Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr. Clarke.”
“This time we’ve got to get him,” said Clarke. “I may tell you, inspector, that we’ve formed an association of our own to deal with the matter. A legion of interested parties.”
Inspector Crome said in his best manner:
“Oh, yes?”
“I gather you don’t think much of amateurs, inspector?”
“You’ve hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr. Clarke?”
“We’ve got a personal axe to grind—and that’s something.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I fancy your own task isn’t going to be too easy, inspector. In fact, I rather fancy old A B C has done you again.”
Crome, I noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other methods would have failed.
“I don’t fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements this time,” he said. “The fool has given us ample warning. The 11th isn’t till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his or her guard—that’s so much to the good. Also, we’ll draft police into the town on a fairly large scale. That’s already been arranged for by consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man—and with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!”
Clarke said quietly:
“It’s easy to see you’re not a sporting man, inspector.”
Crome stared at him.