Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [76]
‘What was it?’
‘That was M. Charles Vyse on the telephone. He informs me that this morning, throught the post, he has received a will signed by his cousin, Miss Buckley, and dated the 25th February last.’
‘What? The will?’
‘Evidemment.’
‘It has turned up?’
‘Just at the right moment, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Do you think he is speaking the truth?’
‘Or do I think he has had the will all along? Is that what you would say? Well, it is all a little curious. But one thing is certain; I told you that, if Mademoiselle Nick were supposed to be dead, we should have developments—and sure enough here they are!’
‘Extraordinary,’I said. ‘You were right. I suppose this is the will making Frederica Rice residuary legatee?’
‘M. Vyse said nothing about the contents of the will. He was far too correct. But there seems very little reason to doubt that this is the same will. It is witnessed, he tells me, by Ellen Wilson and her husband.’
‘So we are back at the old problem,’ I said. ‘Frederica Rice.’
‘The enigma!’
‘Frederica Rice,’ I murmured, inconsequently. ‘It’s a pretty name.’
‘Prettier than what her friends call her. Freddie’—he made a face—‘ce n’est pas joli—for a young lady.’
‘There aren’t many abbreviations of Frederica,’ I said. ‘It’s not like Margaret where you can have half a dozen—Maggie, Margot, Madge, Peggie—’
‘True. Well, Hastings, are you happier now? That things have begun to happen?’
‘Yes, of course. Tell me—did you expect this to happen?’
‘No—not exactly. I had formulated nothing very precise to myself. All I had said was that given a certain result, the causes of that result must make themselves evident.’
‘Yes,’ I said, respectfully.
‘What was it that I was going to say just as that telephone rang?’ mused Poirot. ‘Oh, yes, that letter from Mademoiselle Maggie. I wanted to look at it once again. I have an idea in the back of my mind that something in it struck me as rather curious.’
I picked it up from where I had tossed it, and handed it to him.
He read it over to himself. I moved about the room, looking out of the window and observing the yachts racing on the bay.
Suddenly an exclamation startled me. I turned round. Poirot was holding his head in his hands and rocking himself to and fro, apparently in an agony of woe.
‘Oh!’ he groaned. ‘But I have been blind—blind.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Complex, I have said? Complicated? Mais non. Of a simplicity extreme—extreme. And miserable one that Iam, I saw nothing—nothing.’
‘Good gracious, Poirot, what is this light that has suddenly burst upon you?’
‘Wait—wait—do not speak! I must arrange my ideas. Rearrange them in the light of this discovery so stupendous.’
Seizing his list of questions, he ran over them silently, his lips moving busily. Once or twice he nodded his head emphatically.
Then he laid them down and leaning back in his chair he shut his eyes. I thought at last that he had gone to sleep.
Suddenly he sighed and opened his eyes.
‘But yes!’ he said. ‘It all fits in! All the things that have puzzled me. All the things that have seemed to me a little unnatural. They all have their place.’
‘You mean—you know everything?’
‘Nearly everything. All that matters. In some respects I have been right in my deductions. In other ways ludicrously far from the truth. But now it is all clear. I shall send today a telegram asking two questions—but the answers to them I know already—I know here!’ He tapped his forehead.
‘And when you receive the answers?’ I asked, curiously.
He sprang to his feet.
‘My friend, do you remember that Mademoiselle Nick said she wanted to stage a play at End House? Tonight, we stage such a play in End House. But it will be a play produced by Hercule Poirot. Mademoiselle Nick will have a part to play in it.’ He grinned suddenly.
‘You comprehend, Hastings, there will be a ghost in this play. Yes, a ghost. End House has never seen a ghost. It will have one tonight. No’—as I tried to ask a question—‘I will say no more. Tonight, Hastings, we will produce our comedy—and reveal