Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [59]
Poirot looked at his watch.
‘Bon. We have just time to catch M. Vyse at his office before he leaves it for lunch.’
On arrival we were shown into Charles Vyse’s office after the briefest of delays.
The young lawyer rose to greet us. He was as formal and unemotional as ever.
‘Good morning, M. Poirot. What can I do for you?’
Without more ado Poirot presented the letter Nick had written. He took it and read it, then gazed over the top of it in a perplexed manner.
‘I beg your pardon. I really am at a loss to understand?’
‘Has not Mademoiselle Buckley made her meaning clear?’
‘In this letter,’ he tapped it with his finger-nail, ‘she asks me to hand over to you a will made by her and entrusted to my keeping in February last.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘But, my dear sir, no will has been entrusted to my keeping!’
‘Comment?’
‘As far as I know my cousin never made a will. I certainly never made one for her.’
‘She wrote this herself, I understand, on a sheet of notepaper and posted it to you.’
The lawyer shook his head.
‘In that case all I can say is that I never received it.’
‘Really, M. Vyse—’
‘I never received anything of the kind, M. Poirot.’
There was a pause, then Poirot rose to his feet.
‘In that case, M. Vyse, there is nothing more to be said. There must be some mistake.’
‘Certainly there must be some mistake.’
He rose also.
‘Good day, M. Vyse.’
‘Good day, M. Poirot.’
‘And that is that,’ I remarked, when we were out in the street once more.
‘Précisément.’
‘Is he lying, do you think?’
‘Impossible to tell. He has the good poker face, M. Vyse, besides looking as though he had swallowed one. One thing is clear, he will not budge from the position he has taken up. He never received the will. That is his point.’
‘Surely Nick will have a written acknowledgment of its receipt.’
‘Cette petite, she would never bother her head about a thing like that. She despatched it. It was off her mind. Voilà. Besides, on that very day, she went into a nursing home to have her appendix out. She had her emotions, in all probability.’
‘Well, what do we do now?’
‘Parbleu, we go and see M. Croft. Let us see what he can remember about this business. It seems to have been very much his doing.’
‘He didn’t profit by it in any way,’ I said, thoughtfully.
‘No. No, I cannot see anything in it from his point of view. He is probably merely the busybody—the man who likes to arrange his neighbour’s affairs.’
Such an attitude was indeed typical of Mr Croft, I felt. He was the kindly know all who causes so much exasperation in this world of ours.
We found him busy in his shirt sleeves over a steaming pot in the kitchen. A most savoury smell pervaded the little lodge.
He relinquished his cookery with enthusiasm, being clearly eager to talk about the murder.
‘Half a jiffy,’ he said. ‘Walk upstairs. Mother will want to be in on this. She’d never forgive us for talking down here. Cooee—Milly. Two friends coming up.’
Mrs Croft greeted us warmly and was eager for news of Nick. I liked her much better than her husband.
‘That poor dear girl,’ she said. ‘In a nursing home, you say? Had a complete breakdown, I shouldn’t wonder. A dreadful business, M. Poirot—perfectly dreadful. An innocent girl like that shot dead. It doesn’t bear thinking about—it doesn’t indeed. And no lawless wild part of the world either. Right here in the heart of the old country. Kept me awake all night, it did.’
‘It’s made me nervous about going out and leaving you, old lady,’ said her husband, who had put on his coat and joined us. ‘I don’t like to think of your having been left all alone here yesterday evening. It gives me the shivers.’
‘You’re not going to leave me again, I can tell you,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Not after dark, anyway. And I’m thinking I’d like to leave this part of the world as soon as possible. I shall never feel the same about it. I shouldn’t think poor Nicky Buckley could ever bear to sleep in that house again.’
It was a little difficult to reach the object of our visit. Both Mr and Mrs Croft talked