The sequel to the story came on the morrow, when we learned of the tragic death of Captain Vincent Lemesurier. He had been travelling north by the Scotch mail-train, and during the night must have opened the door of the compartment and jumped out on the line. The shock of his father’s accident coming on top of shell-shock was deemed to have caused temporary mental aberration.
The curious superstition prevalent in the Lemesurier family was mentioned, in connection with the new heir, his father’s brother, Ronald Lemesurier, whose only son had died on the Somme.
I suppose our accidental meeting with young Vincent on the last evening of his life quickened our interest in anything that pertained to the Lemesurier family, for we noted with some interest two years later the death of Ronald Lemesurier, who had been a confirmed invalid at the time of his succession to the family estates. His brother John succeeded him, a, a hale, hearty man with a boy at Eton.
Certainly an evil destiny overadowedt,ed the Lemesuriers. On hi very next holiday the boy managed to to shoot himself fatally.
Hia father’s death, which occurred quite iite suddenly after being stung by a wasp, gave the estate over to tl 0 the youngest brother of the five – Hugo, whom we remembered me,neeting on the fatal night at the Carlton.
Beyond commenting on the extraordinary, nary series of misfortunes which befell the Lemesuriers, we had takeaken no personal interest in the matter, but the time was now close :se at hand when we were to take a more active part.
One morning ‘Mrs Lemesurier’ was annos0nounced. She was a tall, active woman, possibly about thirty years qjrs of age, who conveyed by her demeanour a great deal of dete:etermination and strong common sense. She spoke with a faint tranansatlantic accent.
‘M. Poirot? I am pleased to meet youvou’ My husband, Hugo Lemesurier, met you once many years age, ago, but you will hardly remember the fact.’ ‘I recollect it perfectly, madame. It was as at the Carlton.’ ‘That’s quite wonderful of you. NI. Poir.,oirot, I’m very worried.’ ‘What about, madame?’ ‘My elder boy – I’ve two boys, you kno-now’ Ronald’s eight, and Gerald’s six.’ ‘Proceed, madame: why shouId you bd be worried about little Ronald?’ ‘M. Poirot, within the last six months he he has had three narrow escapes from death: once from drowning – v, – when we were all down at Cornwall this summer; once when he ::he fell from the nursery window; and once from ptomaine poisoninlaing., Perhaps Poirot’s face expressed rather to too eloquently what he thought, for Mrs Lemesurier hurried on wi with hardly a moment’s pause: ‘Of course I know you think I’m just gst a silly fool of a woman, making mountains out of molehills.’ ‘No, indeed, madame. Any mother mighight be excused for being upset at such occurrences, but I hardly see ‘ee where I can be of any
assistance to you. I am not /ebon D/eu to control the waves; for the nursery window I should suggest some iron bars; and for the food – what can equal a mother’s care?’ ‘But why should these things happen to Ronald and not to Gerald?’ ‘The chance, madame – le hasardl’ ‘You think so?’ ‘What do you think, madame – you and your husband?’ A shadow crossed Mrs Lemesurier’s face.
‘It’s no good going to Hugo – he won’t listen. As perhaps you may have heard, there’s supposed to be a curse on the family no eldest son can succeed. Hugo believes in it. He’s wrapped up in the family history, and he’s superstitious to the last degree.
When I go to him with my fears, he just says it’s the curse, and we can’t escape it. But I’m from the States, M. Poirot, and over there we don’t believe much in curses. We like them as belonging to a real high-toned old family – it gives a sort of cachet, don’t you know. I was just a musical comedy actress in a small part when Hugo met me – and I thought his family curse was just too lovely for words. That kind of thing’s all right for telling round the fire on a winter’s evening, but when it comes to one’s own children I just adore my children, M. Poirot. I’d do anything for them.’ ‘So you decline to believe in the family legend, madame?’ ‘Can a legend saw through an ivy stem?’ ‘What is that you are saying, madame?’ cried Poirot, an expression of great astonishment on his face.