Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [77]
He hurried from the room.
Chapter 19
Poirot Produces a Play
It was a curious gathering that met that night at End House.
I had hardly seen Poirot all day. He had been out for dinner but had left me a message that I was to be at End House at nine o’clock. Evening dress, he had added, was not necessary.
The whole thing was like a rather ridiculous dream.
On arrival I was ushered into the dining-room and when I looked round I realized that every person on Poirot’s list from A. to I. (J. was necessarily excluded, being in the Mrs Harris-like position of ‘there ain’t no such person’) was present.
Even Mrs Croft was there in a kind of invalid chair. She smiled and nodded at me.
‘This is a surprise, isn’t it?’ she said, cheerfully. ‘It makes a change for me, I must say. I think I shall try and get out now and again. All M. Poirot’s idea. Come and sit by me, Captain Hastings. Somehow I feel this is rather a gruesome business—but Mr Vyse made a point of it.’
‘Mr Vyse?’ I said, rather surprised.
Charles Vyse was standing by the mantelpiece. Poirot was beside him talking earnestly to him in an under-tone.
I looked round the room. Yes, they were all there. After showing me in (I had been a minute or two late) Ellen had taken her place on a chair just beside the door. On another chair, sitting painfully straight and breathing hard, was her husband. The child, Alfred, squirmed uneasily between his father and mother.
The rest sat round the dining-table. Frederica in her black dress, Lazarus beside her, George Challenger and Croft on the other side of the table. I sat a little away from it near Mrs Croft. And now Charles Vyse, a final nod of the head, took his place at the head of the table, and Poirot slipped unobtrusively into a seat next to Lazarus.
Clearly the producer, as Poirot had styled himself, did not propose to take a prominent part in the play. Charles Vyse was apparently in charge of the proceedings. I wondered what surprises Poirot had in store for him.
The young lawyer cleared his throat and stood up. He looked just the same as ever, impassive, formal and unemotional.
‘This is rather an unconventional gathering we have here tonight,’ he said. ‘But the circumstances are very peculiar. I refer, of course, to the circumstances surrounding the death of my cousin, Miss Buckley. There will have, of course, to be an autopsy—there seems to be no doubt that she met her death by poison, and that that poison was administered with the intent to kill. This is police business and I need not go into it. The police would doubtless prefer me not to do so.
‘In an ordinary case, the will of a deceased person is read after the funeral, but in deference to M. Poirot’s special wish, I am proposing to read it before the funeral takes place. In fact, I am proposing to read it here and now. That is why everyone has been asked to come here. As I said just now, the circumstances are unusual and justify a departure from precedent.
‘The will itself came into my possession in a somewhat unusual manner. Although dated last February, it only reached me by post this morning. However, it is undoubtedly in the handwriting of my cousin—I have no doubt on that point, and though a most informal document, it is properly attested.’
He paused and cleared his throat once more.
Every eye was upon his face.
From a long envelope in his hand, he drew out an enclosure. It was, as we could see, an ordinary piece of End House notepaper with writing on it.
‘It is quite short,’ said Vyse. He made a suitable pause, then began to read:
‘This is the last Will and Testament of Magdala Buckley. I direct that all my funeral expenses should be paid and I appoint my cousin Charles Vyse as my executor. I leave everything of which I die possessed to Mildred Croftin grateful recognition of the services rendered by her to my father, Philip Buckley, which services nothing can ever repay.
‘Signed—Magdala Buckley,
‘Witnesses—Ellen Wilson, William Wilson.’
I was dumbfounded! So I think was everyone else.