The visit that we received on the following morning was to my mind one of the most surprising things about the whole affair.
I was in my sitting room when Poirot slipped in with his eyes shining.
‘Mon ami, we have a visitor.’
‘Who is it?’
‘The Dowager Duchess of Merton.’
‘How extraordinary! What does she want?’
‘If you accompany me downstairs, mon ami, you will know.’
I hastened to comply. We entered the room together.
The Duchess was a small woman with a high-bridged nose and autocratic eyes. Although she was short one would not have dared to call her dumpy. Dressed though she was in unfashionable black, she was yet every inch a grande dame. She also impressed me as having an almost ruthless personality. Where her son was negative, she was positive. Her will-power was terrific. I could almost feel waves of force emanating from her. No wonder this woman had always dominated all those with whom she came in contact!
She put up a lorgnette and studied first me and then my companion. Then she spoke to him. Her voice was clear and compelling, a voice accustomed to command and to be obeyed.
‘You are M. Hercule Poirot?’
My friend bowed.
‘At your service, Madame la Duchesse.’
She looked at me.
‘This is my friend, Captain Hastings. He assists me in my cases.’
Her eyes looked momentarily doubtful. Then she bent her head in acquiescence.
She took the chair that Poirot offered.
‘I have come to consult you on a very delicate matter, M. Poirot, and I must ask that what I tell you shall be understood to be entirely confidential.’
‘That goes without saying, Madame.’
‘It was Lady Yardly who told me about you. From the way in which she spoke of you and the gratitude she expressed, I felt that you were the only person likely to help me.’
‘Rest assured, I will do my best, Madame.’
Still she hesitated. Then, at last, with an effort, she came to the point, came to it with a simplicity that reminded me in an odd way of Jane Wilkinson on that memorable night at the Savoy.
‘M. Poirot, I want you to ensure that my son does not marry the actress, Jane Wilkinson.’
If Poirot felt astonishment, he refrained from showing it. He regarded her thoughtfully and took his time about replying.
‘Can you be a little more definite, Madame, as to what you want me to do?’
‘That is not easy. I feel that such a marriage would be a great disaster. It would ruin my son’s life.’
‘Do you think so, Madame?’
‘I am sure of it. My son has very high ideals. He knows really very little of the world. He has never cared for the young girls of his own class. They have struck him as empty-headed and frivolous. But as regards this woman—well, she is very beautiful, I admit that. And she has the power of enslaving men. She has bewitched my son. I have hoped that the infatuation would run its course. Mercifully she was not free. But now that her husband is dead—’
She broke off.
‘They intend to be married in a few months’ time. The whole happiness of my son’s life is at stake.’ She spoke more peremptorily. ‘It must be stopped, M. Poirot.’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘I do not say that you are not right, Madame. I agree that the marriage is not a suitable one. But what can one do?’
‘It is for you to do something.’
Poirot slowly shook his head.
‘Yes, yes, you must help me.’
‘I doubt if anything would avail, Madame. Your son, I should say, would refuse to listen to anything against the lady! And also, I do not think there is very much against her to say! I doubt if there are any discreditable incidents to be raked up in her past. She has been—shall we say—careful?’
‘I know,’ said the Duchess grimly.
‘Ah! So you have already made the inquiries in that direction.’
She flushed a little under his keen glance.
‘There is nothing I would not do, M. Poirot, to save my son from this marriage.’ She reiterated that word emphatically, ‘Nothing!’