‘I am, see you, in a delicate situation. I will lay the facts plainly before you. I am, by profession, a private detective.’
The financier smiled a little.
‘It is not necessary to tell me that, M. Poirot. Your name is, by now, a household word.’
‘Monsieur is too amiable,’ said Poirot, bowing. ‘Let us, then, proceed. I receive, at my London address, a letter from this M. Lytcham Roche. In it he says that he has reason to believe that he is being swindled of large sums of money. For family reasons, so he puts it, he does not wish to call in the police, but he desires that I should come down and look into the matter for him. Well, I agree. I come. Not quite so soon as M. Lytcham Roche wishes—for after all I have other affairs, and M. Lytcham Roche, he is not quite the King of England, though he seems to think he is.’
Barling gave a wry smile.
‘He did think of himself that way.’
‘Exactly. Oh, you comprehend—his letter showed plainly enough that he was what one calls an eccentric. He was not insane, but he was unbalanced, n’est-ce pas?’
‘What he’s just done ought to show that.’
‘Oh, monsieur, but suicide is not always the act of the unbalanced. The coroner’s jury, they say so, but that is to spare the feelings of those left behind.’
‘Hubert was not a normal individual,’ said Barling decisively. ‘He was given to ungovernable rages, was a monomaniac on the subject of family pride, and had a bee in his bonnet in more ways than one. But for all that he was a shrewd man.’
‘Precisely. He was sufficiently shrewd to discover that he was being robbed.’
‘Does a man commit suicide because he’s being robbed?’ Barling asked.
‘As you say, monsieur. Ridiculous. And that brings me to the need for haste in the matter. For family reasons—that was the phrase he used in his letter. Eh bien, monsieur, you are a man of the world, you know that it is for precisely that—family reasons—that a man does commit suicide.’
‘You mean?’
‘That it looks—on the face of it—as if ce pauvre monsieur had found out something further—and was unable to face what he had found out. But you perceive, I have a duty. I am already employed—commissioned—I have accepted the task. This “family reason”, the dead man did not want it to get to the police. So I must act quickly. I must learn the truth.’
‘And when you have learned it?’
‘Then—I must use my discretion. I must do what I can.’
‘I see,’ said Barling. He smoked for a minute or two in silence, then he said, ‘All the same I’m afraid I can’t help you. Hubert never confided anything to me. I know nothing.’
‘But tell me, monsieur, who, should you say, had a chance of robbing this poor gentleman?’
‘Difficult to say. Of course, there’s the agent for the estate. He’s a new man.’
‘The agent?’
‘Yes. Marshall. Captain Marshall. Very nice fellow, lost an arm in the war. He came here a year ago. But Hubert liked him, I know, and trusted him, too.’
‘If it were Captain Marshall who was playing him false, there would be no family reasons for silence.’
‘N-No.’
The hesitation did not escape Poirot.
‘Speak, monsieur. Speak plainly, I beg of you.’
‘It may be gossip.’
‘I implore you, speak.’
‘Very well, then, I will. Did you notice a very attractive looking young woman in the drawing room?’
‘I noticed two very attractive looking young women.’
‘Oh, yes, Miss Ashby. Pretty little thing. Her first visit. Harry Dalehouse got Mrs Lytcham Roche to ask her. No, I mean a dark girl—Diana Cleves.’
‘I noticed her,’ said Poirot. ‘She is one that all men would notice, I think.’
‘She’s a little devil,’ burst out Barling. ‘She’s played fast and loose with every man for twenty miles round. Someone will murder her one of these days.’
He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, oblivious of the keen interest with which the other was regarding him.
‘And this young lady is—’
‘She’s Lytcham Roche’s adopted daughter. A great disappointment when he and his wife had no children. They adopted Diana Cleves—she was some kind of cousin. Hubert was devoted to her, simply worshipped her.’
‘Doubtless he would dislike the idea of her marrying?’ suggested Poirot.
‘Not if she married the right person.’
‘And the right person was—you, monsieur?’
Barling started and flushed.
‘I never said—’
‘Mais, non, mais, non! You said nothing. But it was so, was it not?’
‘I fell in love with her—yes. Lytcham Roche was pleased about it. It fitted in with his ideas for her.’
‘And mademoiselle herself?’
‘I told you—she’s the devil incarnate.’
‘I comprehend. She has her own ideas of amusement, is it not so? But Captain Marshall, where does he come in?’
‘Well, she’s been seeing a lot of him. People talked. Not that I think there’s anything in it. Another scalp, that’s all.’
Poirot nodded.
‘But supposing that there had been something in it—well, then, it might explain why M. Lytcham Roche wanted to proceed cautiously.’
‘You do understand, don’t you, that there’s no earthly reason for suspecting Marshall of defalcation.’
‘Oh, parfaitement, parfaitement! It might be an affair of a forged cheque with someone in the household involved. This young Mr Dalehouse, who is he?’
‘A nephew.’
‘He will inherit, yes?’
‘He’s a sister’s son. Of course he might take the name—there’s not a Lytcham Roche left.’
‘I see.’
‘The place isn’t actually entailed, though it’s always gone from father to son. I’ve always imagined that he’d leave the place to his wife
