girl far less obtrusive than Rowland McCrodden’s Miss Mason. He tried to conceal his shock when he saw the room in which the solicitor worked.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Vout, rising from his chair to shake his visitor’s hand. He had an engaging smile and snow-white hair that peaked and curled in random tufts. ‘You must be Herc-ule Poir-ot—is that correct?’
‘C’est parfait,’ said Poirot approvingly. Rare indeed was the Englishman who could pronounce both the Christian name and the family name correctly. Was it appropriate, however, to feel admiration for any man who could work in conditions such as these? The room was an extraordinary sight. It was large, about twenty feet by fifteen, with a high ceiling. Pushed up against the wall on the right were Vout’s large mahogany desk and green leather chair. In front of those stood two straight-backed armchairs in brown leather. In the right-hand third of the room there was also a bookcase, a lamp and a fireplace. On the mantelpiece above the fire there was an invitation to a dinner of the Law Society.
The other two thirds of the available space were occupied by scruffy cardboard boxes, piled high, one atop another, to form an enormous and uneven edifice that was breathtaking in its grotesqueness. It would have been impossible to walk around or through the boxes. Effectively, their presence reduced the size of the room to a degree that any sane person would have found intolerable. Many of the boxes were open, with things spilling out of them: yellowing papers, broken picture frames, old cloths with dirt stains on them. Beyond the gargantuan box-structure was a window at which hung strips of pale yellow material that could not hope to cover the glass in front of which they dangled.
‘C’est le cauchemar,’ Poirot murmured.
‘I see you’ve spotted the curtains.’ Vout sounded apologetic. ‘One could make this room more appealing to the eye if one replaced them. They’re terribly old. I’d have one of the office girls pull them down, but, as you can see, no one can reach them.’
‘Because of the boxes?’
‘Well, my mother died three years ago. There’s much to be sorted out, and I’ve yet to make inroads, I’m afraid. Not all the boxes are Mama’s possessions, mind you. A lot of it is my own … paraphernalia.’ He sounded quite happy with the situation. ‘Please, do be seated, M. Poirot. How may I be of assistance?’
Poirot lowered himself into one of the available armchairs. ‘You do not mind working in here, with … the paraphernalia?’ he persisted.
‘I see you’re fascinated by it, M. Poirot. I expect you’re one of those chaps who likes everything to be ship-shape at all times, are you?’
‘Most assuredly I am, monsieur. I am inordinately fond of the shape of the ship. It is necessary for me to be in a tidy environment if I am to think clearly and productively. It is not so for you?’
‘I’m not going to let a few old boxes bother me.’ Vout chuckled. ‘I don’t notice them from one day to the next. I’ll tackle them at some point. Until then … why let them worry me?’
With a small twitch of the eyebrows, Poirot moved on to the subject he had come to discuss. Vout expressed regret at the death of his dear old friend Barnabas Pandy, and regaled Poirot with all the same facts that Rowland McCrodden was (perhaps at that very moment) relating to me: Welsh slate mines; Combingham Hall Estate; two granddaughters, Lenore and Annabel; two great-grandchildren, Ivy and Timothy. Vout also offered a detail about Barnabas Pandy that was absent from Rowland Rope’s account: he mentioned the faithful and long-serving Kingsbury. ‘More like a younger brother to Barnabas, was Kingsbury. He felt like a member of the family more than a servant—though he was always most conscientious when it came to performing his tasks. Naturally, Barnabas made arrangements for him to be looked after. A bequest …’
‘Ah yes, the will,’ said Poirot. ‘I would like to hear about it.’
‘Well, I don’t see what harm it would do to tell you. Barnabas wouldn’t have minded, and his testamentary affairs were very simple—just what one would expect, in fact. But … might I ask why you’re interested?’
‘It has been suggested to me—indirectly—that Monsieur Pandy was murdered.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Vout laughed and rolled his eyes. ‘Murder, eh? No, not a bit of it. Barnabas drowned. Fell asleep while in the tub, sank under the water and, sadly …’ He left the obvious conclusion unstated.
‘That is the official story. However, the possibility has been raised that the death was made to look like an accident, when in fact it was deliberate.’
Vout was shaking his head emphatically. ‘Tommyrot! Goodness me, someone’s been rumour-mongering for all he’s worth, eh? Or she—it’s usually the ladies who like to gossip. We chaps are much too sensible to waste our time stirring up trouble.’
‘You are certain, then, that Monsieur Pandy’s death was accidental?’ asked Poirot.
‘Couldn’t be more so.’
‘How are you able to state this with such conviction? Were you present in the bathroom when he died?’
Vout looked affronted. ‘Of course I wasn’t in the bathroom with him! Wasn’t there at all! Seventh of December, wasn’t it? My wife and I were at my nephew’s wedding that day, as it happens. In Coventry.’
Poirot smiled politely. ‘I simply wished to suggest that if you were not in the room when he died, and not at Combingham Hall, then you are not in a position to say definitively that the death of Monsieur Pandy was accidental. If someone had crept into the bathroom and pushed him under the water … How would you know this had happened, or had not happened, if you were at a wedding in Coventry?’
‘It’s only that I know the family,’ Vout said eventually, with a concerned frown. ‘I’m a dear friend to them all, as they are to me. I know who was at the Hall when the tragedy occurred: Lenore, Annabel, Ivy and Kingsbury, and I can assure you that none of them would have raised a finger against Barnabas. The idea is unthinkable! I have witnessed their grief first-hand, M. Poirot.’
Poirot mouthed to himself the words ‘C’est ca.’ His suspicion had been correct. Vout was one of those people who believed in things like murder, and evil, and all forms of serious unpleasantness only when they did not affect him personally. Were he to read in a newspaper that a maniac had chopped five members of the same family into small pieces, he would not question it. Suggest to him, though, that a man he regarded as a friend might have been murdered, and you would never succeed in persuading him that it was possible.
‘Please tell me about Monsieur Pandy’s will,’ said Poirot.
‘As I say, Kingsbury was left a tidy sum: enough to be comfortable for the remainder of his days. The house and estate are left in trust for Ivy and Timothy, on the understanding that Lenore and Annabel may continue to live there for the rest of their lives. All the money and other assets, of which there are plenty, go to Lenore and Annabel. Each is now, in her own right, an extremely wealthy woman.’
‘So an inheritance might provide a motive,’ said Poirot.
Vout sighed impatiently. ‘M. Poirot, please hear what I’m trying to tell you. There is simply no circumstance—’
‘Yes, yes, I hear. Most people would assume that a man of ninety-four will die reasonably soon. But if someone needed money immediately … if to wait a year would have dire consequences for
