I remembered Jane Wilkinson’s little shudder as she spoke of her husband. That had not been acting. That had been real enough. I wondered exactly what kind of a man George Alfred St Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, was.
Very suavely he bid us farewell, touching the bell as he did so. We went out of the door. The Greek god of a butler was waiting in the hall. As I closed the library door behind me, I glanced back into the room. I almost uttered an exclamation as I did so.
That suave smiling face was transformed. The lips were drawn back from the teeth in a snarl, the eyes were alive with fury and an almost insane rage.
I wondered no longer that two wives had left Lord Edgware. What I did marvel at was the iron self-control of the man. To have gone through that interview with such frozen self-control, such aloof politeness!
Just as we reached the front door, a door on the right opened. A girl stood at the doorway of the room, shrinking back a little as she saw us.
She was a tall slender girl, with dark hair and a white face. Her eyes, dark and startled, looked for a moment into mine. Then, like a shadow, she shrank back into the room again, closing the door.
A moment later we were out in the street. Poirot hailed a taxi. We got in and he told the man to drive to the Savoy.
‘Well, Hastings,’ he said with a twinkle, ‘that interview did not go at all as I figured to myself it would.’
‘No, indeed. What an extraordinary man Lord Edgware is.’
I related to him how I had looked back before closing the door of the study and what I had seen. He nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully.
‘I fancy that he is very near the border line of madness, Hastings. I should imagine he practises many curious vices, and that beneath his frigid exterior he hides a deep-rooted instinct of cruelty.’
‘It is no wonder both his wives left him.’
‘As you say.’
‘Poirot, did you notice a girl as we were coming out? A dark girl with a white face.’
‘Yes, I noticed her, mon ami. A young lady who was frightened and not happy.’
His voice was grave.
‘Who do you think she was?’
‘Probably his daughter. He has one.’
‘She did look frightened,’ I said slowly. ‘That house must be a gloomy place for a young girl.’
‘Yes, indeed. Ah! here we are, mon ami. Now to acquaint her ladyship with the good news.’
Jane was in, and after telephoning, the clerk informed us that we were to go up. A page-boy took us to the door.
It was opened by a neat middle-aged woman with glasses and primly arranged grey hair. From the bedroom Jane’s voice, with its husky note, called to her.
‘Is that M. Poirot, Ellis? Make him sit right down. I’ll find a rag to put on and be there in a moment.’
Jane Wilkinson’s idea of a rag was a gossamer negligee which revealed more than it hid. She came in eagerly, saying: ‘Well?’
Poirot rose and bowed over her hand.
‘Exactly the word, Madame, it is well.’
‘Why—how do you mean?’
‘Lord Edgware is perfectly willing to agree to a divorce.’
‘What?’
Either the stupefaction on her face was genuine, or else she was indeed a most marvellous actress.
‘M. Poirot! You’ve managed it! At once! Like that! Why, you’re a genius. How in mercy’s name did you set about it?’
‘Madame, I cannot take compliments where they are not earned. Six months ago your husband wrote to you withdrawing his opposition.’
‘What’s that you say? Wrote to me? Where?’
‘It was when you were at Hollywood, I understand.’
‘I never got it. Must have gone astray, I suppose. And to think I’ve been thinking and planning and fretting and going nearly crazy all these months.’
‘Lord Edgware seemed to be under the impression that you wished to marry an actor.’
‘Naturally. That’s what I told him.’ She gave a pleased child’s smile. Suddenly it changed to a look of alarm. ‘Why, M. Poirot, you did not go and tell him about me and the duke?’