Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [58]
‘We’re very grateful to you, M. Poirot,’ said Rowley. ‘By Jove, it really was quite like a conjuring trick.’
Which was exactly what it had been, Poirot reflected! Asked a question to which you knew the answer, there was no difficulty whatsoever in performing a trick with the requisite frills. He quite appreciated that to the simple Rowley, the production of Major Porter out of the blue, so to speak, had been as breathtaking as any number of rabbits produced from the conjurer’s hat.
‘How you go about these things beats me,’ said Rowley.
Poirot did not enlighten him. He was, after all, only human. The conjurer does not tell his audience how the trick was done.
‘Anyway, Lynn and I are no end grateful,’ Rowley went on.
Lynn Marchmont, Poirot thought, was not looking particularly grateful. There were lines of strain round her eyes, her fingers had a nervous trick of twining and intertwining themselves.
‘It’s going to make a lot of difference to our future married life,’ said Rowley.
Lynn said sharply:
‘How do you know? There are all sorts of formalities and things, I’m sure.’
‘You are getting married, when?’ asked Poirot politely.
‘June.’
‘And you have been engaged since when?’
‘Nearly six years,’ said Rowley. ‘Lynn’s just come out of the Wrens.’
‘And is it forbidden to marry in the Wrens, yes?’
Lynn said briefly:
‘I’ve been overseas.’
Poirot noticed Rowley’s swift frown. He said shortly:
‘Come on, Lynn. We must get going. I expect M. Poirot wants to get back to town.’
Poirot said smilingly:
‘But I’m not going back to town.’
‘What?’
Rowley stopped dead, giving a queer wooden effect.
‘I am staying here, at the Stag, for a short while.’
‘But — but why?’
‘C’est un beau paysage,’ Poirot said placidly.
Rowley said uncertainly:
‘Yes, of course…But aren’t you — well, I mean, busy?’
‘I have made my economies,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I do not need to occupy myself unduly. No, I can enjoy my leisure and spend my time where the fancy takes me. And my fancy inclines to Warmsley Vale.’
He saw Lynn Marchmont raise her head and gaze at him intently. Rowley, he thought, was slightly annoyed.
‘I suppose you play golf?’ he said. ‘There’s a much better hotel at Warmsley Heath. This is a very one-horse sort of place.’
‘My interests,’ said Poirot, ‘lie entirely in Warmsley Vale.’
Lynn said:
‘Come along, Rowley.’
Half reluctantly, Rowley followed her. At the door, Lynn paused and then came swiftly back. She spoke to Poirot in a quiet low voice.
‘They arrested David Hunter after the inquest. Do you — do you think they were right?’
‘They had no alternative, Mademoiselle, after the verdict.’
‘I mean — do you think he did it?’
‘Do you?’ said Poirot.
But Rowley was back at her side. Her face hardened to a poker smoothness. She said:
‘Goodbye, M. Poirot. I — I hope we meet again.’
‘Now, I wonder,’ said Poirot to himself.
Presently, after arranging with Beatrice Lippincott about a room, he went out again. His steps led him to Dr Lionel Cloade’s house.
‘Oh!’ said Aunt Kathie, who opened the door, taking a step or two backwards. ‘M. Poirot!’
‘At your service, Madame.’ Poirot bowed. ‘I came to pay my respects.’
‘Well, that’s very nice of you, I’m sure. Yes — well — I suppose you’d better come in. Sit down — I’ll move Madame Blavatsky — and perhaps a cup of tea — only the cake is terribly stale. I meant to go to Peacocks for some, they do have Swiss roll sometimes on a Wednesday — but an inquest puts one’s household routine out, don’t you think so?’
Poirot said that he thought that was entirely understandable.
He had fancied that Rowley Cloade was annoyed by the announcement of his stay in Warmsley Vale. Aunt Kathie’s manner, without any doubt, was far from welcoming. She was looking at him with something not far from dismay. She said, leaning forward and speaking in a hoarse conspiratorial whisper:
‘You won’t tell my husband, will you,