Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [67]
‘Better come inside,’ said the latter.
The three men re-entered the house.
‘They telephoned through to Warmsley Vale,’ Graves explained. ‘And Superintendent Spence sent me up.’
‘Suicide?’
The Inspector answered:
‘Yes. Seems a clear case. Don’t know whether having to give evidence at the inquest preyed upon his mind. People are funny that way sometimes, but I gather he’s been depressed lately. Financial difficulties and one thing and another. Shot himself with his own revolver.’
Poirot asked: ‘Is it permitted that I go up?’
‘If you like, M. Poirot. Take M. Poirot up, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Graves led the way up to the first-floor room. It was much as Poirot remembered it: the dim colours of the old rugs, the books. Major Porter was in the big arm-chair. His attitude was almost natural, just the head slumped forward. His right arm hung down at his side — below it, on the rug, lay the revolver. There was still a very faint smell of acrid gunpowder in the air.
‘About a couple of hours ago, they think,’ said Graves. ‘Nobody heard the shot. The woman of the house was out shopping.’
Poirot was frowning, looking down on the quiet figure with the small scorched wound in the right temple.
‘Any idea why he should do it, M. Poirot?’ asked Graves.
He was respectful to Poirot because he had seen the Superintendent being respectful — though his private opinion was that Poirot was one of these frightful old dug-outs.
Poirot replied absently:
‘Yes — yes, there was a very good reason. That is not the difficulty.’
His glance shifted to a small table at Major Porter’s left hand. There was a big solid glass ashtray on it, with a pipe and a box of matches. Nothing there. His eye roamed round the room. Then he crossed to an open roll-top desk.
It was very tidy. Papers neatly pigeon-holed. A small leather blotter in the centre, a pen-tray with a pen and two pencils, a box of paper-clips and a book of stamps. All very neat and orderly. An ordinary life and an orderly death — of course — that was it — that was what was missing!
He said to Graves:
‘Didn’t he leave any note — any letter for the coroner?’
Graves shook his head.
‘No, he didn’t — sort of thing one would have expected an ex-Army man to do.’
‘Yes, that is very curious.’
Punctilious in life, Major Porter had not been punctilious in death. It was all wrong, Poirot thought, that Porter had left no note.
‘Bit of a blow for the Cloades this,’ said Graves. ‘It will set them back. They’ll have to hunt about for someone else who knew Underhay intimately.’
He fidgeted slightly. ‘Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?’
Poirot shook his head and followed Graves from the room.
On the stairs they met the landlady. She was clearly enjoying her own state of agitation and started a voluble discourse at once. Graves adroitly detached himself and left Poirot to receive the full spate.
‘Can’t seem to catch my breath properly. ’Eart, that’s what it is. Angina Pectoria, my mother died of — fell down dead as she was crossing the Caledonian Market. Nearly dropped down myself when I found him — oh, it did give me a turn! Never suspected anything of the kind, though ’e ’ad been low in ’is spirits for a long time. Worried over money, I think, and didn’t eat enough to keep himself alive. Not that he’d ever accept a bite from us. And then yesterday he ’ad to go down to a place in Oastshire — Warmsley Vale — to give evidence in an inquest. Preyed on his mind, that did. He come back looking awful. Tramped about all last night. Up and down — up and down. A murdered gentleman it was and a friend of his, by all accounts. Poor dear, it did upset him. Up and down — up and down. And when I was out doing my bit of shopping — and ’aving to queue ever so long for the fish, I went up to see if he’d like a nice cuppa tea — and there he was, poor gentleman, the revolver dropped out of his hand, leaning back in his chair. Gave me an awful turn it did. ’Ad to ’ave the police in and everything. What’s the world coming to, that’s what I say?’
Poirot said