Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [68]
‘The world is becoming a difficult place to live in — except for the strong.’
Chapter 10
It was past eight o’clock when Poirot got back to the Stag. He found a note from Frances Cloade asking him to come and see her. He went out at once.
She was waiting for him in the drawing-room. He had not seen that room before. The open windows gave on a walled garden with pear trees in bloom. There were bowls of tulips on the tables. The old furniture shone with beeswax and elbow-grease and the brass of the fender and coal-scuttle were brightly gleaming.
It was, Poirot thought, a very beautiful room.
‘You said I should want you, M. Poirot. You were quite right. There is something that must be told — and I think you are the best person to tell it to.’
‘It is always easier, Madame, to tell a thing to someone who already has a very good idea of what it is.’
‘You think you know what I am going to say?’
Poirot nodded.
‘Since when — ’
She left the question unfinished, but he replied promptly:
‘Since the moment when I saw the photograph of your father. The features of your family are very strongly marked. One could not doubt that you and he were of the same family. The resemblance was equally strong in the man who came here calling himself Enoch Arden.’
She sighed — a deep unhappy sigh.
‘Yes — yes, you’re right — although poor Charles had a beard. He was my second cousin, M. Poirot, somewhat the black sheep of the family. I never knew him very well but we played together as children — and now I’ve brought him to his death — an ugly sordid death — ’
She was silent for a moment or two. Poirot said gently:
‘You will tell me — ’
She roused herself.
‘Yes, the story has got to be told. We were desperate for money — that’s where it begins. My husband — my husband was in serious trouble — the worst kind of trouble. Disgrace, perhaps imprisonment lay ahead of him — still lies ahead of him for that matter. Now understand this, M. Poirot, the plan I made and carried out was my plan; my husband had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t his sort of plan in any case — it would have been far too risky. But I’ve never minded taking risks. And I’ve always been, I suppose, rather unscrupulous. First of all, let me say, I applied to Rosaleen Cloade for a loan. I don’t know whether, left to herself, she would have given it to me or not. But her brother stepped in. He was in an ugly mood and he was, or so I thought, unnecessarily insulting. When I thought of this scheme I had no scruples at all about putting it into operation.
‘To explain matters, I must tell you that my husband had repeated to me last year a rather interesting piece of information which he had heard at his club. You were there, I believe, so I needn’t repeat it in detail. But it opened up the possibility that Rosaleen’s first husband might not be dead — and of course in that case she would have no right at all to any of Gordon’s money. It was, of course, only a vague possibility, but it was there at the back of our minds, a sort of outside chance that might possibly come true. And it flashed into my mind that something could be done by using that possibility. Charles, my cousin, was in this country, down on his luck. He’s been in prison, I’m afraid, and he wasn’t a scrupulous person, but he did well in the war. I put the proposition before him. It was, of course, blackmail, neither more nor less. But we thought that we had a good chance of getting away with it. At worst, I thought, David Hunter would refuse to play. I didn’t think that he would go to the police about it — people like him aren’t fond of the police.’
Her voice hardened.
‘Our scheme went well. David fell for it better than we hoped. Charles, of course, could not definitely pose as “Robert Underhay”. Rosaleen could give that away in a moment. But fortunately she went up to London and that left Charles a chance of at least suggesting that he might be Robert Underhay. Well, as I say, David appeared to be falling for the scheme. He was to bring the money on Tuesday evening at nine o’clock. Instead —