‘The whole of his vast fortune is left unreservedly to his wife. There is no mention of his son.’
Mr. Stonor gave vent to a prolonged whistle. ‘I call that rather rough on the lad. His mother adores him of course, but to the world at large it looks rather like a want of confidence on his father’s part. It will be rather galling to his pride. Still, it all goes to prove what I told you, that Renauld and his wife were on first-rate terms.’
‘Quite so, quite so’ said M. Hautet. ‘It is possible we shall have to revise our ideas on several points. We have, of course, cabled to Santiago, and are expecting a reply from there any minute. In all probability, everything will then be perfectly clear and straightforward. On the other hand, your suggestion of blackmail is true, Madame Daubreuil ought to be able to give us valuable information.’
Poirot interjected a remark: ‘Monsieur Stonor, the English chauffeur, Masters, had he been long with Monsieur Renauld?’
‘Over a year.’
‘Have you any idea whether he has ever been in South America?’
‘I’m quite sure he hasn’t. Before coming to M. Renauld he had been for many years with some people in Gloucestershire whom I know well.’
‘In fact, you can answer for him as being above suspicion?’
‘Absolutely.’
Poirot seemed somewhat crestfallen.
Meanwhile the magistrate had summoned Marchaud.
‘My compliments to Madame Renauld, and I should be glad to speak to her for a few minutes. Beg her not to disturb herself. I will wait upon her upstairs.’
Marchaud saluted and disappeared.
We waited some minutes, and then, to our surprise, the door opened, and Mrs. Renauld, deathly pale in her heavy mourning, entered the room.
M. Hautet brought forward a chair, uttering vigorous protestations, and she thanked him with a smile. Stonor was holding one hand of hers in his with an eloquent sympathy.
Words evidently failed him. Mrs. Renauld turned to M. Hautet.
‘You wish to ask me something?’
‘With your permission, madame. I understand your husband was a French-Canadian by birth. Can you tell me anything of his youth or upbringing?’
She shook her head. ‘My husband was always very reticent about himself, monsieur. He came from the North-West, I know, but I fancy that he had an unhappy childhood, for he never cared to speak of that time. Our life was lived entirely in the present and the future.’
‘Was there any mystery in his past life?’
Mrs. Renauld smiled a little and shook her head. ‘Nothing so romantic I am sure, monsieur.’ M. Hautet also smiled.
‘True, we must not permit ourselves to get melodramatic. There is one thing more—’ He hesitated.
Stonor broke in impetuously: ‘They’ve got an extraordinary idea into their heads, Mrs. Renauld. They actually fancy that Mr. Renauld was carrying on an intrigue with a Madame Daubreuil who it seems, lives next door.’
The scarlet colour flamed into Mrs. Renauld’s cheeks. She flung her head up, then bit her lip, her face quivering. Stonor stood looking at her in astonishment but M. Bex leaned forward and said gently: ‘We regret to cause you pain, madame, but have you any reason to believe that Madame Daubreuil was your husband’s mistress?’
With a sob of anguish, Mrs. Renauld buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved convulsively. At last she lifted her head and said brokenly: ‘She may have been.’
Never, in all my life, have I seen anything to equal the blank amazement on Stonor’s face. He was thoroughly taken aback.
CHAPTER 11
JACK RENAULD
WHAT the next development of the conversation would have been I cannot say, for at that moment the door was thrown open violently and a tall young man strode into the room.
Just for a moment I had the uncanny sensation that the dead man had come to life again. Then I realized that this dark head was untouched with grey, and that, in point of fact, it was a mere boy who now burst in among us with so little ceremony. He went straight to Mrs. Renauld with an impetuosity that took no heed of the presence of others.
‘Mother!’
‘Jack!’ With a cry she folded him in her arms. ‘My dearest! But what brings you here? You were to sail on the Aurora from Cherbourg two days ago?’ Then, suddenly recalling to herself the presence of others, she turned with a certain dignity: ‘My son messieurs.’