Agatha Christie – Lord Edgware Dies

Captain Ronald Marsh. Now Lord Edgware.

Chapter 13

The Nephew

The new Lord Edgware’s eye was a quick one. He noticed the slight start I gave.

‘Ah! you’ve got it,’ he said amiably. ‘Aunt Jane’s little supper party. Just a shade bottled, wasn’t I? But I fancied it passed quite unperceived.’

Poirot was saying goodbye to Geraldine Marsh and Miss Carroll.

‘I’ll come down with you,’ said Ronald genially.

He led the way down the stairs, talking as he went.

‘Rum thing—life. Kicked out one day, lord of the manor the next. My late unlamented uncle kicked me out, you know, three years ago. But I expect you know all about that, M. Poirot?’

‘I had heard the fact mentioned—yes,’ replied Poirot composedly.

‘Naturally. A thing of that kind is sure to be dug up. The earnest sleuth can’t afford to miss it.’

He grinned.

Then he threw open the dining-room door.

‘Have a spot before you go.’

Poirot refused. So did I. But the young man mixed himself a drink and continued to talk.

‘Here’s to murder,’ he said cheerfully. ‘In the space of one short night I am converted from the creditor’s despair to the tradesman’s hope. Yesterday ruin stared me in the face, today all is affluence. God bless Aunt Jane.’

He drained his glass. Then, with a slight change of manner, he spoke to Poirot.

‘Seriously, though, M. Poirot, what are you doing here? Four days ago Aunt Jane was dramatically declaiming, “Who will rid me of this insolent tyrant?” and lo and behold she is ridded! Not by your agency, I hope? The perfect crime, by Hercule Poirot, ex-sleuth hound.’

Poirot smiled.

‘I am here this afternoon in answer to a note from Miss Geraldine Marsh.’

‘A discreet answer, eh? No, M. Poirot, what are you really doing here? For some reason or other you are interesting yourself in my uncle’s death.’

‘I am always interested in murder, Lord Edgware.’

‘But you don’t commit it. Very cautious. You should teach Aunt Jane caution. Caution and a shade more camouflage. You’ll excuse me calling her Aunt Jane. It amuses me. Did you see her blank face when I did it the other night? Hadn’t the foggiest notion who I was.’

‘En verité?’

‘No. I was kicked out of here three months before she came along.’

The fatuous expression of good nature on his face failed for a moment. Then he went on lightly:

‘Beautiful woman. But no subtlety. Methods are rather crude, eh?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘It is possible.’

Ronald looked at him curiously.

‘I believe you think she didn’t do it. So she’s got round you too, has she?’

‘I have a great admiration for beauty,’ said Poirot evenly. ‘But also for—evidence.’

He brought the last word out very quietly.

‘Evidence?’ said the other sharply.

‘Perhaps you do not know, Lord Edgware, that Lady Edgware was at a party at Chiswick last night at the time she was supposed to have been seen here.’

Ronald swore.

‘So she went after all! How like a woman! At six o’clock she was throwing her weight about, declaring that nothing on earth would make her go, and I suppose about ten minutes after she’d changed her mind! When planning a murder never depend upon a woman doing what she says she’ll do. That’s how the best-laid plans of murder gang agley. No, M. Poirot, I’m not incriminating myself. Oh, yes, don’t think I can’t read what’s passing through your mind. Who is the Natural Suspect? The well-known Wicked Ne’er-do-Weel Nephew.’

He leaned back in his chair chuckling.

‘I’m saving your little grey cells for you, M. Poirot. No need for you to hunt round for someone who saw me in the offing when Aunt Jane was declaring she never, never, never would go out that night, etc. I was there. So you ask yourself did the wicked nephew in very truth come here last night disguised in a fair wig and a Paris hat?’

Seemingly enjoying the situation, he surveyed us both. Poirot, his head a little on one side, was regarding him with close attention. I felt rather uncomfortable.

‘I had a motive—oh! yes, motive admitted. And I’m going to give you a present of a very valuable and significant piece of information. I called to see my uncle yesterday morning. Why? To ask for money. Yes, lick your lips over that. To ASK FOR MONEY. And I went away without getting any. And that same evening—that very same evening—Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord Edgware Dies. Look well on a bookstall.’