was an extremely English-looking person. Tall, cadaverous and unemotional.
‘A young girl is a very interesting phenomenon, George,’ said Poirot, as he dropped once more into his arm-chair and lighted a tiny cigarette. ‘Especially, you understand, when she has brains. To ask someone to do a thing and at the same time to put them against doing it, that is a delicate operation. It requires finesse. She was very adroit – oh, very adroit – but Hercule Poirot, my good George, is of a cleverness quite exceptional.’
‘I have heard you say so, sir.’
‘It is not the secretary she has in mind,’ mused Poirot. ‘Lady Astwell’s accusation of him she treats with contempt. Just the same she is anxious that no one should disturb the sleeping dogs. I, my good George, I go to disturb them, I go to make the dog fight! There is a drama there, at Mon Repos. A human drama, and it excites me. She was adroit, the little one, but not adroit enough. I wonder – I wonder what I shall find there?’
Into the dramatic pause which succeeded these words George’s voice broke apologetically:
‘Shall I pack dress clothes, sir?’
Poirot looked at him sadly.
‘Always the concentration, the attention to your own job. You are very good for me, George.’
When the 4.55 drew up at Abbots Cross station, there descended from it M. Hercule Poirot, very neatly and foppishly attired, his moustaches waxed to a stiff point. He gave up his ticket, passed through the barrier, and was accosted by a tall chauffeur.
‘M. Poirot?’
The little man beamed upon him.
‘That is my name.’
‘This way, sir, if you please.’
He held open the door of the big Rolls-Royce.
The house was a bare three minutes from the station. The chauffeur descended once more and opened the door of the car, and Poirot stepped out. The butler was already holding the front door open.
Poirot gave the outside of the house a swift appraising glance before passing through the open door. It was a big, solidly built red-brick mansion, with no pretensions to beauty, but with an air of solid comfort.
Poirot stepped into the hall. The butler relieved him deftly of his hat and overcoat, then murmured with that deferential undertone only to be achieved by the best servants:
‘Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.’
Poirot followed the butler up the soft-carpeted stairs. This, without doubt, was Parsons, a very well-trained servant, with a manner suitably devoid of emotion. At the top of the staircase he turned to the right along a corridor. He passed through a door into a little ante-room, from which two more doors led. He threw open the left-hand one of these, and announced:
‘M. Poirot, m’lady.’
The room was not a very large one, and it was crowded with furniture and knick-knacks. A woman, dressed in black, got up from a sofa and came quickly towards Poirot.
‘M. Poirot,’ she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the dandified figure. She paused a minute, ignoring the little man’s bow over her hand, and his murmured ‘Madame,’ and then, releasing his hand after a sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed:
‘I believe in small men! They are the clever ones.’
‘Inspector Miller,’ murmured Poirot, ‘is, I think, a tall man?’
‘He is a bumptious idiot,’ said Lady Astwell. ‘Sit down here by me, will you, M. Poirot?’
She indicated the sofa and went on:
‘Lily did her best to put me off sending for you, but I have not come to my time of life without knowing my own mind.’
‘A rare accomplishment,’ said Poirot, as he followed her to the settee.
Lady Astwell settled herself comfortably among the cushions and turned so as to face him.
‘Lily is a dear girl,’ said Lady Astwell, ‘but she thinks she knows everything, and as often as not in my experience those sort of people are wrong. I am not clever, M. Poirot, I never have been, but I am right where many a more stupid person is wrong. I believe in guidance. Now do you want me to tell you who is the murderer, or do you not? A woman knows, M. Poirot.’
‘Does Miss Margrave know?’
‘What did she tell you?’ asked Lady Astwell sharply.
‘She gave me the facts of the case.’
‘The facts? Oh, of course they are dead against Charles, but I tell you, M. Poirot, he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t!’ She bent upon him an earnestness that was almost disconcerting.
‘You are very positive, Lady Astwell?’
‘Trefusis killed my husband, M. Poirot. I am sure of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why should he kill him, do you mean, or why am I sure? I tell you I know it! I am funny about those things. I make up my mind at once, and I stick to it.’
‘Did Mr Trefusis benefit in any way by Sir Reuben’s death?’
‘Never left him a penny,’ returned Lady Astwell promptly. ‘Now that shows you dear Reuben couldn’t have liked or trusted him.’
‘Had he been with Sir Reuben long, then?’
‘Close on nine years.’
‘That is a long time,’ said Poirot softly, ‘a very long time to remain in the employment of one man. Yes, Mr Trefusis, he must have known his employer well.’
Lady Astwell stared at him.
‘What are you driving at? I don’t see what that has to do with it.’
‘I was following out a little idea of my own,’ said Poirot. ‘A little idea, not interesting, perhaps, but original, on the effects of service.’
Lady Astwell still stared.
‘You are very clever, aren’t you?’ she said in rather a doubtful tone. ‘Everybody says so.’
Hercule Poirot laughed.
‘Perhaps you shall pay me that compliment, too, Madame, one of these days. But let us return to the motive. Tell me now of your household, of the people who were here in the house on the day of the tragedy.’
‘There was Charles, of course.’
‘He was your husband’s nephew, I understand, not yours.’
‘Yes, Charles was the only son of Reuben’s sister. She married a comparatively rich man, but one of those crashes came – they do, in the city – and he died, and his wife, too, and Charles came to live
