Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [66]
‘Who is Major Porter?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘A retired Army officer, living on his pension.’
‘He really was in Africa?’
Poirot looked at her curiously.
‘Certainly, Madame. Why not?’
She said almost absently, ‘I don’t know. He puzzled me.’
‘Yes, Mrs Cloade,’ said Poirot. ‘I can understand that.’
She looked sharply at him. An expression almost of fear came into her eyes.
Turning to her husband she said:
‘Jeremy, I feel very much distressed about Rosaleen. She is all alone at Furrowbank and she must be frightfully upset over David’s arrest. Would you object if I asked her to come here and stay?’
‘Do you really think that is advisable, my dear?’ Jeremy sounded doubtful.
‘Oh — advisable? I don’t know! But one is human. She is such a helpless creature.’
‘I rather doubt if she will accept.’
‘I can at any rate make the offer.’
The lawyer said quietly: ‘Do so if it will make you feel happier.’
‘Happier!’
The word came out with a strange bitterness. Then she gave a quick doubtful glance at Poirot.
Poirot murmured formally:
‘I will take my leave now.’
She followed him out into the hall.
‘You are going up to London?’
‘I shall go up tomorrow, but for twenty-four hours at most. And then I return to the Stag — where you will find me, Madame, if you want me.’
She demanded sharply:
‘Why should I want you?’
Poirot did not reply to the question, merely said:
‘I shall be at the Stag.’
Later that night out of the darkness Frances Cloade spoke to her husband.
‘I don’t believe that man is going to London for the reason he said. I don’t believe all that about Gordon’s having made a will. Do you believe it, Jeremy?’
A hopeless, rather tired voice answered her:
‘No, Frances. No — he’s going for some other reason.’
‘What reason?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
Frances said, ‘What are we going to do, Jeremy? What are we going to do?’
Presently he answered:
‘I think, Frances, there’s only one thing to be done — ’
Chapter 9
Armed with the necessary credentials from Jeremy Cloade, Poirot had got the answers to his questions. They were very definite. The house was a total wreck. The site had been cleared only quite recently in preparation for rebuilding. There had been no survivors except for David Hunter and Mrs Cloade. There had been three servants in the house: Frederick Game, Elizabeth Game and Eileen Corrigan. All three had been killed instantly. Gordon Cloade had been brought out alive, but had died on the way to hospital without recovering consciousness. Poirot took the names and addresses of the three servants’ next-of-kin. ‘It is possible,’ he said, ‘that they may have spoken to their friends something in the way of gossip or comment that might give me a pointer to some information I badly need.’
The official to whom he was speaking looked sceptical. The Games had come from Dorset, Eileen Corrigan from County Cork.
Poirot next bent his steps towards Major Porter’s rooms. He remembered Porter’s statement that he himself was a Warden and he wondered whether he had happened to be on duty on that particular night and whether he had seen anything of the incident in Sheffield Terrace.
He had, besides, other reasons for wanting a word with Major Porter.
As he turned the corner of Edgeway Street he was startled to see a policeman in uniform standing outside the particular house for which he was making. There was a ring of small boys and other people standing staring at the house. Poirot’s heart sank as he interpreted the signs.
The constable intercepted Poirot’s advance.
‘Can’t go in here, sir,’ he said.
‘What has happened?’
‘You don’t live in the house, do you, sir?’ Poirot shook his head. ‘Who was it you were wishing to see?’
‘I wished to see a Major Porter.’
‘You a friend of his, sir?’
‘No, I should not describe myself as a friend. What has happened?’
‘Gentleman has shot himself, I understand. Ah, here’s the Inspector.’
The door had opened and two figures came out. One was the local Inspector, the other Poirot recognized as Sergeant Graves from Warmsley Vale. The latter recognized him and