Poirot investigates - Agatha Christie [69]
‘Only a cursory one; but I have too much respect for my uncle’s undoubted abilities to fancy that the task will be an easy one.’
‘Have you the will or a copy of it with you?’
Miss March handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it, nodding to himself.
‘Made three years ago. Dated March 25; and the time is given also–11 A.M.–that is very suggestive. It narrows the field of search. Assuredly it is another will we have to seek for. A will made even half an hour later would upset this. Eh bien, mademoiselle, it is a problem charming and ingenious that you have presented to me here. I shall have all the pleasure in the world in solving it for you. Granted that your uncle was a man of ability, his grey cells cannot have been of the quality of Hercule Poirot’s!’
(Really, Poirot’s vanity is blatant!)
‘Fortunately, I have nothing of moment on hand at the minute. Hastings and I will go down to Crabtree Manor tonight. The man and wife who attended on your uncle are still there, I presume?’
‘Yes, their name is Baker.’
II
The following morning saw us started on the hunt proper. We had arrived late the night before. Mr and Mrs Baker, having received a telegram from Miss Marsh, were expecting us. They were a pleasant couple, the man gnarled and pink-cheeked, like a shrivelled pippin, and his wife a woman of vast proportion and true Devonshire calm.
Tired with our journey and the eight-mile drive from the station, we had retired at once to bed after a supper of roast chicken, apple pie, and Devonshire cream. We had now disposed of an excellent breakfast, and were sitting in a small panelled room which had been the late Mr Marsh’s study and living room. A roll-top desk stuffed with papers, all neatly docketed, stood against the wall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its owner’s constant resting-place. A big chintz-covered settee ran along the opposite wall, and the deep low window seats were covered with the same faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern.
‘Eh bien, mon ami,’ said Poirot, lighting one of his tiny cigarettes, ‘we must map out our plan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of the house, but I am of the opinion that any clue will be found in this room. We shall have to go through the documents in the desk with meticulous care. Naturally, I do not expect to find the will amongst them, but it is likely that some apparently innocent paper may conceal the clue to its hiding-place. But first we must have a little information. Ring the bell, I pray of you.’
I did so. While we were waiting for it to be answered, Poirot walked up and down, looking about him approvingly.
‘A man of method, this Mr Marsh. See how neatly the packets of papers are docketed; then the key to each drawer has its ivory label–so has the key of the china cabinet on the wall; and see with what precision the china within is arranged. It rejoices the heart. Nothing here offends the eye–’
He came to an abrupt pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk itself, to which a dirty envelope was affixed. Poirot frowned at it and withdrew it from the lock. On it were scrawled the words: ‘Key of Roll Top Desk,’ in a crabbed handwriting, quite unlike the neat superscriptions on the other keys.
‘An alien note,’ said Poirot, frowning. ‘I could swear that here we have no longer the personality of Mr Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh, and she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method and order.’
Baker came in answer to the bell.
‘Will you fetch madame your wife, and answer a few questions?’
Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs Baker, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming all over her face.
In a few clear words Poirot set forth the object of his mission. The Bakers were immediately sympathetic.
‘Us don’t want to see Miss Violet done out of what’s hers,’ declared the woman. ‘Cruel hard ’twould be for hospitals to get it all.’
Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr and Mrs Baker