Rowland Rope’s son was a murderer when apparently no one else did, and convey his thoughts back to the Super. All of this seemed manageable. I saw no need to upset the apple cart at work by pointing out that ‘He’s my friend’s son’ is neither proof of innocence nor a viable defence.
Nathaniel Bewes is a mild, even-tempered and fair-minded man—apart from in the immediate aftermath of something that has especially upset him. In those rare moments he is incapable of realizing that he is greatly distressed and that his emotional state might have skewed his perspective. Because his judgement is so often sound, he assumes it will always be, and is therefore liable to make the most absurd pronouncements—things which, in his usual calm frame of mind, he would be the first to call idiotic. Once restored to sanity after one of his episodes, he never refers to the period during which he emitted a series of ridiculous statements and directives, and, as far as I know, no one else ever refers to them either. I certainly don’t. Though it sounds fanciful, I am not convinced that the normal Super is aware of the existence of his deranged counterpart who occasionally understudies for him.
I nodded judiciously as the understudy ranted and growled, striding up and down his small office, pushing his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose as they slid down with disconcerting frequency.
‘Rowly’s son, a murderer? Preposterous! He’s the son of Rowland McCrodden! If you were the son of a man like that, Catchpool, would you take up murder as a way of passing the time? Of course you wouldn’t! Only a fool would! Besides, the death of Barnabas Pandy was an accident—I’ve availed myself of the official record of his passing and it’s all there in black and white, plain as day: accident! The man drowned in his bath. Ninety-four, he was. I mean, I ask you—ninety-four! How much longer was he likely to live? Would you risk your neck to murder a ninety-four-year-old man, Catchpool? It beggars belief. No one would. Why would they?’
‘Well—’
‘There could be no reason,’ Bewes concluded. ‘Now, I don’t know what your Belgian chum thinks he’s up to, but you’d better make it clear to him in no uncertain terms that he is to write to Rowly McCrodden at once and convey his most profuse apologies.’ Bewes had clearly forgotten that he too was on friendly terms with Poirot.
There were, of course, many reasons why someone might murder a nonagenarian: if he had threatened to expose their shameful secret to the world the very next day, for instance. And Bewes—the real Bewes, not his unbalanced doppelgänger—knew as well as I did that some murders are initially mistaken for accidents. To grow up as the son of a man famous for helping to dispatch miscreants to the gallows could, arguably, warp a person’s psyche to the point where he might decide to kill.
I knew there was no point saying any of this to the Super today, though in a different mood he would have made the same good points himself. I decided to risk only a minor challenge. ‘Didn’t you say Poirot sent this letter of accusation to Rowland Rope’s son, not to Rowland Rope himself?’
‘Well, what if he did?’ Bewes rounded on me angrily. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘How old is John McCrodden?’
‘How old? What the devil are you talking about? Does his age matter?’
‘Is he a man or a young boy?’ I continued patiently.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Catchpool? John McCrodden is a grown man.’
‘Then wouldn’t it make more sense for me to ask Poirot to apologize to John McCrodden, not his father? Assuming he’s mistaken and John McCrodden is innocent. I mean, if John is not a minor—’
‘He used to be a miner, but not any more,’ said Bewes. ‘He worked in a mine somewhere up in the north-east.’
‘Ah,’ I said, knowing that my boss’s ability to understand context would return sooner if I said as little as possible.
‘But that, Catchpool, is beside the point. Poor Rowly’s the one we need to worry about. John is blaming him for the whole mess. Poirot must write to Rowly immediately and grovel for all he’s worth. This is a monstrous accusation—an outrageous slur! Please see to it that this happens, Catchpool.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Can you tell me any more about the particulars of the case, sir? I don’t suppose Rowland Rope mentioned why Poirot has got hold of this idea that—’
‘How the devil should I know why, Catchpool? Man must have lost his grip on his faculties—that’s the only explanation I can think of. You can read the letter for yourself, if you like!’
‘Do you have it?’
‘John tore it into pieces, which he sent to Rowly with a note of accusation of his own. Rowly taped the pieces together and passed the letter on to me. I don’t know why John thinks Rowly’s behind it. Rowly plays a straight bat. Always has. His son, of all people, should know that. If Rowly had something to say to John, he’d say it himself.’
‘I’d like to see the letter if I may, sir.’
Bewes walked over to his desk, opened one of the drawers and grimaced as he pulled out the offending item. He handed it to me. ‘It’s the purest nonsense!’ he said, in case I was unsure of his opinion of the matter. ‘Malicious rubbish!’
‘But Poirot is never malicious,’ I nearly said; I stopped myself just in time.
I read the letter. It was brief: only one paragraph. Nevertheless, given what it sought to communicate, it could have been half the length. In a muddled and artless way, it accused John McCrodden of the murder of Barnabas Pandy and claimed that there was proof to vindicate the accusation. If McCrodden did not immediately confess to this murder, then this proof would be turned over to the police.
My gaze settled upon the signature at the bottom of the letter. In a sloping hand was written the name ‘Hercule Poirot’.
It would have been useful if I could have recalled my friend’s signature, but I could not, despite having seen it once or twice. Perhaps whoever had sent the letter had meticulously copied Poirot’s handwriting. What they had not done was manage to sound at all like the man they hoped to impersonate, nor to write the sort of letter he might have written.
If Poirot believed that John McCrodden had murdered this Barnabas Pandy fellow and successfully passed his death off as an accident, he would have visited McCrodden accompanied by the police. He wouldn’t have sent this letter and allowed McCrodden the chance to escape or to take his own life before Hercule Poirot had looked him in the eye and explained to him the chain of errors that had led to his unmasking. And the nasty, insinuating tone … No, it was impossible. There was no doubt in my mind.
I had not had time to work out what effect my revelation would have upon the Super, but I felt I must tell him at once: ‘Sir, the situation seems not to be exactly what I … or what you … That is to say, I’m not sure that an apology from Poirot …’ I was making a hash of it.
‘What are you trying to say, Catchpool?’
‘The letter is a fake, sir,’ I said. ‘I don’t know who wrote it, but I can tell you for certain that it was not Hercule Poirot.’
