Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [78]
‘It’s true,’ she said, quietly. ‘Not that I ever meant to let on about it. Philip Buckley was out in Australia, and if it hadn’t been for me—well, I’m not going into that. A secret it’s been and a secret it had better remain. She knew about it, though. Nick did, I mean. Her father must have told her. We came down here because we wanted to have a look at the place. I’d always been curious about this End House Philip Buckley talked of. And that dear girl knew all about it, and couldn’t do enough for us. Wanted us to come and live with her, she did. But we wouldn’t do that. And so she insisted on our having the lodge—and not a penny of rent would she take. We pretended to pay it, of course, so as not to cause talk, but she handed it back to us. And now—this! Well, if anyone says there is no gratitude in the world, I’ll tell them they’re wrong! This proves it.’
There was still an amazed silence. Poirot looked at Vyse.
‘Had you any idea of this?’
Vyse shook his head.
‘I knew Philip Buckley had been in Australia. But I never heard any rumours of a scandal there.’
He looked inquiringly at Mrs Croft.
She shook her head.
‘No, you won’t get a word out of me. I never have said a word and I never shall. The secret goes to the grave with me.’
Vyse said nothing. He sat quietly tapping the table with a pencil.
‘I presume, M. Vyse’—Poirot leaned forward—‘that as next of kin you could contest that will? There is, I understand, a vast fortune at stake which was not the case when the will was made.’
Vyse looked at him coldly.
‘The will is perfectly valid. I should not dream of contesting my cousin’s disposal of her property.’
‘You’re an honest fellow,’ said Mrs Croft, approvingly. ‘And I’ll see you don’t lose by it.’
Charles sank a little from this well-meant but slightly embarrassing remark.
‘Well, Mother,’ said Mr Croft, with an elation he could not quite keep out of his voice. ‘This is a surprise! Nick didn’t tell me what she was doing.’
‘The dear sweet girl,’ murmured Mrs Croft, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘I wish she could look down and see us now. Perhaps she does—who knows?’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Poirot.
Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. He looked round.
‘An idea! We are all here seated round a table. Let us hold a séance.’
‘A séance?’ said Mrs Croft, somewhat shocked. ‘But surely—’
‘Yes, yes, it will be most interesting. Hastings, here, has pronounced mediumistic powers.’ (Why fix on me, I thought.) ‘To get through a message from the other world—the opportunity is unique! I feel the conditions are propitious. You feel the same, Hastings.’
‘Yes,’ I said resolutely, playing up.
‘Good. I knew it. Quick, the lights.’
In another minute he had risen and switched them off. The whole thing had been rushed on the company before they had had the energy to protest had they wanted to do so. As a matter of fact they were, I think, still dazed with astonishment over the will.
The room was not quite dark. The curtains were drawn back and the window was open for it was a hot night, and through those windows came a faint light. After a minute or two, as we sat in silence, I began to be able to make out the faint outlines of the furniture. I wondered very much what I was supposed to do and cursed Poirot heartily for not having given me my instructions beforehand.
However, I closed my eyes and breathed in a rather stertorous manner
Presently Poirot rose and tiptoed to my chair. Then returning to his own, he murmured.
‘Yes, he is already in a trance. Soon—things will begin to happen.’
There is something about sitting in the dark, waiting, that fills one with unbearable apprehension. I know that I myself was a prey to nerves and so, I was sure, was everyone else. And yet I had at least an idea of what was about to happen. I knew the one vital fact that no one else knew.
And yet, in spite of all that, my heart leapt into my mouth as I saw the dining-room door slowly opening.
It did so quite soundlessly (it must have been oiled) and the effect was horribly grisly.