First, it was lost in the post. That does happen, you know. But not very often. No, not very often. Incorrectly addressed, it would have been returned to Lord Edgware long before this. No, I am inclined to rule out that solution—though, of course, it may be the true one.
‘Solution two, our beautiful lady is lying when she says she never received it. That, of course, is quite possible. That charming lady is capable of telling any lie to her advantage with the most childlike candour. But I cannot see, Hastings, how it could be to her advantage. If she knows that he will divorce her, why send me to ask him to do so? It does not make sense.
‘Solution three. Lord Edgware is lying. And if anyone is lying it seems more likely that it is he than his wife. But I do not see much point in such a lie. Why invent a fictitious letter sent six months ago? Why not simply agree to my proposition? No, I am inclined to think that he did send that letter—though what the motive was for his sudden change of attitude I cannot guess.
‘So we come to the fourth solution—that someone suppressed that letter. And there, Hastings, we enter on a very interesting field of speculation, because that letter could have been suppressed at either end—in America or England.
‘Whoever suppressed it was someone who did not want that marriage dissolved. Hastings, I would give a great deal to know what is behind this affair. There is something—I swear there is something.’
He paused and then added slowly.
‘Something of which as yet I have only been able to get a glimpse.’
The following day was the 30th of June.
It was just half-past nine when we were told that Inspector Japp was below and anxious to see us.
It was some years since we had seen anything of the Scotland Yard inspector.
‘Ah! ce bon Japp,’ said Poirot. ‘What does he want, I wonder?’
‘Help,’ I snapped. ‘He’s out of his depth over some case and he’s come to you.’
I had not the indulgence for Japp that Poirot had. It was not so much that I minded his picking Poirot’s brains—after all, Poirot enjoyed the process, it was a delicate flattery. What did annoy me was Japp’s hypocritical pretence that he was doing nothing of the kind. I liked people to be straightforward. I said so, and Poirot laughed.
‘You are the dog of the bulldog breed, eh, Hastings? But you must remember that the poor Japp he has to save his face. So he makes his little pretence. It is very natural.’
I thought it merely foolish and said so. Poirot did not agree.
‘The outward form—it is a bagatelle—but it matters to people. It enables them to keep the amour propre.’
Personally I thought a dash of inferiority complex would do Japp no harm, but there was no point in arguing the matter. Besides, I was anxious to learn what Japp had come about.
He greeted us both heartily.
‘Just going to have breakfast, I see. Not got the hens to lay square eggs for you yet, M. Poirot?’
This was an allusion to a complaint from Poirot as to the varying sizes of eggs which had offended his sense of symmetry.
‘As yet, no,’ said Poirot smiling. ‘And what brings you to see us so early, my good Japp?’
‘It’s not early—not for me. I’ve been up and at work for a good two hours. As to what brings me to see you—well, it’s murder.’
‘Murder?’
Japp nodded.
‘Lord Edgware was killed at his house in Regent Gate last night. Stabbed in the neck by his wife.’
‘By his wife?’ I cried.
In a flash I remembered Bryan Martin’s words on the previous morning. Had he had a prophetic knowledge of what was going to happen? I remembered, too, Jane’s easy reference to ‘bumping him off’. Amoral, Bryan Martin had called her. She was the type, yes. Callous, egotistical and stupid. How right he had been in his judgment.
All this passed through my mind while Japp went on:
‘Yes. Actress, you know. Well known. Jane Wilkinson. Married him three years ago. They didn’t get on. She left him.’
Poirot was looking puzzled and serious.
‘What makes you believe that it was she who killed him?’
‘No belief about it. She was recognized. Not much concealment about it, either. She drove up in a taxi—’
‘A taxi—’ I echoed involuntarily, her words at the Savoy that night coming back to me.
‘—rang the bell, asked for Lord Edgware. It was ten o’clock. Butler said he’d see. “Oh!” she says cool as a cucumber. “You needn’t. I am Lady Edgware. I suppose he’s in the library.” And with that she walks along and opens the door and goes in and shuts it behind her.
‘Well the butler thought it was queer, but all right. He went downstairs again. About ten minutes later he heard the front door shut. So, anyway, she hadn’t stayed long. He locked up for the night about eleven. He opened the library door, but it was dark, so he thought his master had gone to bed. This morning the body was discovered by a housemaid. Stabbed in the back of the neck just at the roots of the hair.’
‘Was there no cry? Nothing heard?’
‘They say not. That library’s got pretty well sound-proof doors, you know. And there’s traffic passing, too. Stabbed in that way, death results amazingly quickly. Straight through the cistern into the medulla, that’s what the doctor said—or something very like it. If you hit on exactly the right spot it kills a man instantaneously.’
‘That implies a knowledge of exactly where to strike. It almost implies medical knowledge.’
‘Yes—that’s true. A point in her favour as far as it goes. But ten to one it was a chance. She just struck lucky. Some people do have amazing luck, you know.’
‘Not so lucky if it results in her being hanged, mon ami,’ observed Poirot.
‘No. Of course she was a fool—sailing in like that and giving her name and all.’
‘Indeed, very curious.’
‘Possibly she didn’t intend mischief. They quarrelled and she whipped out a penknife and jabbed him one.’
‘Was it a penknife?’
‘Something of that kind, the doctor says. Whatever it was, she took it
