Peril At End House Part 14

'You have been here long?'

'Six years, sir. But I was here as a girl. In the kitchen as kitchen-maid. That was in the time of old Sir Nicholas. It was the same then.'

Poirot looked at her attentively.

'In an old house,' she said, 'there is sometimes an atmosphere of evil.'

'That's it, sir,' said Ellen, eagerly. 'Evil. Bad thoughts and bad deeds too. It's like dry rot in a house, sir, you can't get it out. It's a sort of feeling in the air. I always knew something bad would happen in this house, someday.'

'Well, you have been proved right.' 'Yes, sir.'

There was a very slight underlying satisfaction in her tone, the satisfaction of one whose gloomy prognostications have been shown to be correct.

'But you didn't think it would be Miss Maggie.'

'No, indeed, I didn't, sir. n.o.body hated her -I'm sure of it.'

It seemed to me that in those words was a clue. I expected Poirot to follow it up, but to my surprise he s.h.i.+fted to quite a different subject.

'You didn't hear the shots fired?'

'I couldn't have told with the fireworks going on. Very noisy they were.'

'You weren't out watching them?'

'No, I hadn't finished clearing up dinner.'

'Was the waiter helping you?'

'No, sir, he'd gone out into the garden to have a look at the fireworks.'

'But you didn't go.'

'No, sir.'

'Why was that?'

'I wanted to get finished.'

'You don't care for fireworks?'

'Oh, yes, sir, it wasn't that. But you see, there's two nights of them, and William and I get the evening off tomorrow and go down into the town and see them from there.'

'I comprehend. And you heard Mademoiselle Maggie asking for her coat and unable to find it?'

'I heard Miss Nick run upstairs, sir, and Miss Buckley call up from the front hall saying she couldn't find something and I heard her say, "All right-I'll take the shawl-"'

'Pardon,' Poirot interrupted. 'You did not endeavour to search for the coat for her-or get it from the car where it had been left?'

'I had my work to do, sir.'

'Quite so-and doubtless neither of the two young ladies asked you because they thought you were out looking at the fireworks?'

'Yes, sir.'

'So that, other years, you have been out looking at the fireworks?'

A sudden flush came into her pale cheeks.

'I don't know what you mean, sir. We're always allowed to go out into the garden. If I didn't feel like it this year, and would rather get on with my work and go to bed, well, that's my business, I imagine.'

'Mais oui. Mais oui. I did not intend to offend you. Why should you not do as you prefer. To make a change, it is pleasant.'

He paused and then added: 'Now another little matter in which I wonder whether you can help me. This is an old house. Are there, do you know, any secret chambers in it?'

'Well-there's a kind of sliding panel-in this very room. I remember being shown it as a girl. Only I can't remember just now where it is. Or was it in the library? I can't say, I'm sure.'

'Big enough for a person to hide in?'

'Oh, no indeed, sir! A little cupboard place-a kind of niche. About a foot square, sir, not more than that.'

'Oh! that is not what I mean at all.' The blush rose to her face again.

'If you think I was hiding anywhere-I wasn't! I heard Miss Nick run down the stairs and out and I heard her cry out-and I came into the hall to see if-if anything was the matter. And that's the gospel truth, sir. That's the gospel truth.'

Chapter 13 Letters.

Having successfully got rid of Ellen, Poirot turned a somewhat thoughtful face towards me.

'I wonder now-did she hear those shots? I think she did. She heard them, she opened the kitchen door. She heard Nick rush down the stairs and out, and she herself came into the hall to find out what had happened. That is natural enough. But why did she not go out and watch the fireworks that evening? That is what I should like to know, Hastings.'

'What was your idea in asking about a secret hiding place?'

'A mere fanciful idea that, after all, we might not have disposed of J.'

'J?'.

'Yes. The last person on my list. The problematical outsider. Supposing for some reason connected with Ellen, that J. had come to the house last night. He (I a.s.sume a he) conceals himself in a secret chamber in this room. A girl pa.s.ses through whom he takes to be Nick. He follows her out-and shoots her. Non-c'est idiot! And anyway, we know that there is no hiding place. Ellen's decision to remain in the kitchen last night was a pure hazard. Come, let us search for the will of Mademoiselle Nick.'

There were no papers in the drawing-room. We adjourned to the library, a rather dark room looking out on the drive. Here there was a large old-fas.h.i.+oned walnut bureau-writing-table.

It took us some time to go through it. Everything was in complete confusion. Bills and receipts were mixed up together. Letters of invitation, letters pressing for payment of accounts, letters from friends.

'We will arrange these papers,' said Poirot, sternly, 'with order and method.'

He was as good as his word. Half an hour later, he sat back with a pleased expression on his face. Everything was neatly sorted, docketed and filed.

'C'est bien, ca. One thing is at least to the good. We have had to go through everything so thoroughly that there is no possibility of our having missed anything.'

'No, indeed. Not that there's been much to find.' 'Except possibly this.'

He tossed across a letter. It was written in large sprawling handwriting, almost indecipherable.

'Darling,-Party was too, too marvellous. Feel rather a worm today. You were wise not to touch that stuff-don't ever start, darling. It's too d.a.m.ned hard to give up. I'm writing the boy friend to hurry up the supply. What h.e.l.l life is!

'Yours, 'Freddie.'

'Dated last February,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'She takes drugs, of course, I knew that as soon as I looked at her.'

'Really? I never suspected such a thing.'

'It is fairly obvious. You have only to look at her eyes. And then there are her extraordinary variations of mood. Sometimes she is all on edge, strung up-sometimes she is lifeless-inert.'

'Drug-taking affects the moral sense, does it not?'

'Inevitably. But I do not think Madame Rice is a real addict. She is at the beginning-not the end.'

'And Nick?'

'There are no signs of it. She may have attended a dope party now and then for fun, but she is no taker of drugs.'

'I'm glad of that.'

I remembered suddenly what Nick had said about Frederica: that she was not always herself. Poirot nodded and tapped the letter he held.

'This is what she was referring to, undoubtedly. Well, we have drawn the blank, as you say, here. Let us go up to Mademoiselle's room.'

There was a desk in Nick's room also, but comparatively little was kept in it. Here again, there was no sign of a will. We found the registration book of her car and a perfectly good dividend warrant of a month back. Otherwise there was nothing of importance.

Poirot sighed in an exasperated fas.h.i.+on.

'The young girls-they are not properly trained nowadays. The order, the method, it is left out of their bringing up. She is charming, Mademoiselle Nick, but she is a feather-head. Decidedly, she is a feather-head.'

He was now going through the contents of a chest of drawers.

'Surely, Poirot,' I said, with some embarra.s.sment, 'those are underclothes.'

He paused in surprise.

'And why not, my friend?'

'Don't you think-I mean-we can hardly-'

He broke into a roar of laughter.

'Decidedly, my poor Hastings, you belong to the Victorian era. Mademoiselle Nick would tell you so if she were here. In all probability she would say that you had the mind like the sink! Young ladies are not ashamed of their underclothes nowadays. The camisole, the camiknicker, it is no longer a shameful secret. Every day, on the beach, all these garments will be discarded within a few feet of you. And why not?'

'I don't see any need for what you are doing.'

'Ecoutez, my friend. Clearly, she does not lock up her treasures, Mademoiselle Nick. If she wished to hide anything from sight-where would she hide it? Underneath the stockings and the petticoats. Ah! what have we here?'

He held up a packet of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon.

'The love letters of M. Michael Seton, if I mistake not.'

Quite calmly he untied the ribbon and began to open out the letters.

'Poirot,' I cried, scandalized. 'You really can't do that. It isn't playing the game.'

'I am not playing a game, mon ami.' His voice rang out suddenly harsh and stern. 'I am hunting down a murderer.'

'Yes, but private letters-'

'May have nothing to tell me-on the other hand, they may. I must take every chance, my friend. Come, you might as well read them with me. Two pairs of eyes are no worse than one pair. Console yourself with the thought that the staunch Ellen probably knows them by heart.'

I did not like it. Still I realized that in Poirot's position he could not afford to be squeamish, and I consoled myself by the quibble that Nick's last word had been, 'Look at anything you like.'

The letters spread over several dates, beginning last winter. New Year's Day.

'Darling,-The New Year is in and I'm making good resolutions. It seems too wonderful to be true-that you should actually love me. You've made all the difference to my life. I believe we both knew-from the very first moment we met. Happy New Year, my lovely girl.

'Yours for ever, Michael.' February 8th.

'Dearest Love,-How I wish I could see you more often. This is pretty rotten, isn't it? I hate all this beastly concealment, but I explained to you how things are. I know how much you hate lies and concealment. I do too. But honestly, it might upset the whole apple cart. Uncle Matthew has got an absolute bee in his bonnet about early marriages and the way they wreck a man's career. As though you could wreck mine, you dear angel!

'Cheer up, darling. Everything will come right.

'Yours, 'Michael.'

March 2nd.

'I oughtn't to write to you two days running, I know. But I must. When I was up yesterday I thought of you. I flew over Scarborough. Blessed, blessed, blessed Scarborough-the most wonderful place in the world. Darling, you don't know how I love you!

'Yours, 'Michael.' April 18th.

'Dearest,-The whole thing is fixed up. Definitely. If I pull this off (and I shall pull it off) I shall be able to take a firm line with Uncle Matthew-and if he doesn't like it-well, what do I care? It's adorable of you to be so interested in my long technical descriptions of the Albatross. How I long to take you up in her. Some day! Don't, for goodness' sake, worry about me. The thing isn't half so risky as it sounds. I simply couldn't get killed now that I know you care for me. Everything will be all right, sweetheart. Trust your Michael.'

April 20th.

'You Angel,-Every word you say is true and I shall treasure that letter always. I'm not half good enough for you. You are so different from everybody else. I adore you.

'Your 'Michael.'