Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [12]
‘Well, she’s been seeing a lot of him. People talked. Not that I think there’s anything in it. Another scalp, that’s all.’
Poirot nodded.
‘But supposing that there had been something in it–well, then, it might explain why M. Lytcham Roche wanted to proceed cautiously.’
‘You do understand, don’t you, that there’s no earthly reason for suspecting Marshall of defalcation.’
‘Oh, parfaitement, parfaitement! It might be an affair of a forged cheque with someone in the household involved. This young Mr Dalehouse, who is he?’
‘A nephew.’
‘He will inherit, yes?’
‘He’s a sister’s son. Of course he might take the name–there’s not a Lytcham Roche left.’
‘I see.’
‘The place isn’t actually entailed, though it’s always gone from father to son. I’ve always imagined that he’d leave the place to his wife for her lifetime and then perhaps to Diana if he approved of her marriage. You see, her husband could take the name.’
‘I comprehend,’ said Poirot. ‘You have been most kind and helpful to me, monsieur. May I ask of you one thing further–to explain to Madame Lytcham Roche all that I have told you, and to beg of her that she accord me a minute?’
Sooner than he had thought likely, the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche entered. She floated to a chair.
‘Mr Barling has explained everything to me,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t have any scandal, of course. Though I do feel really it’s fate, don’t you? I mean with the mirror and everything.’
‘Comment–the mirror?’
‘The moment I saw it–it seemed a symbol. Of Hubert! A curse, you know. I think old families have a curse very often. Hubert was always very strange. Lately he has been stranger than ever.’
‘You will forgive me for asking, madame, but you are not in any way short of money?’
‘Money? I never think of money.’
‘Do you know what they say, madame? Those who never think of money need a great deal of it.’
He ventured a tiny laugh. She did not respond. Her eyes were far away.
‘I thank you, madame,’ he said, and the interview came to an end.
Poirot rang, and Digby answered.
‘I shall require you to answer a few questions,’ said Poirot. ‘I am a private detective sent for by your master before he died.’
‘A detective!’ the butler gasped. ‘Why?’
‘You will please answer my questions. As to the shot now–’
He listened to the butler’s account.
‘So there were four of you in the hall?’
‘Yes, sir; Mr Dalehouse and Miss Ashby and Mr Keene came from the drawing room.’
‘Where were the others?’
‘The others, sir?’
‘Yes, Mrs Lytcham Roche, Miss Cleves and Mr Barling.’
‘Mrs Lytcham Roche and Mr Barling came down later, sir.’
‘And Miss Cleves?’
‘I think Miss Cleves was in the drawing room, sir.’
Poirot asked a few more questions, then dismissed the butler with the command to request Miss Cleves to come to him.
She came immediately, and he studied her attentively in view of Barling’s revelations. She was certainly beautiful in her white satin frock with the rosebud on the shoulder.
He explained the circumstances which had brought him to Lytcham Close, eyeing her very closely, but she showed only what seemed to be genuine astonishment, with no signs of uneasiness. She spoke of Marshall indifferently with tepid approval. Only at mention of Barling did she approach animation.
‘That man’s a crook,’ she said sharply. ‘I told the Old Man so, but he wouldn’t listen–went on putting money into his rotten concerns.’
‘Are you sorry, mademoiselle, that your–father is dead?’
She stared at him.
‘Of course. I’m modern, you know, M. Poirot. I don’t indulge in sob stuff. But I was fond of the Old Man. Though, of course, it’s best for him.’
‘Best for him?’
‘Yes. One of these days he would have had to be locked up. It was growing on him–this belief that the last Lytcham Roche of Lytcham Close was omnipotent.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
‘I see, I see–yes, decided signs of mental trouble. By the way, you permit that I examine your little bag? It is charming–all these silk rosebuds. What was I saying? Oh, yes, did you hear the shot?’
‘Oh, yes! But I thought it was