‘Now, Arthur,’ said Poirot and his voice changed subtly—it was no longer foreign—it had instead a confident English, a slightly Cockney inflection. ‘Can you tell me—I repeat—can you tell me—anything at all about the death of Mrs Clapperton?’
The doll’s neck oscillated a little, its wooden lower jaw dropped and wavered and a shrill high-pitched woman’s voice spoke:
‘What is it, John? The door’s locked. I don’t want to be disturbed by the stewards…’
There was a cry—an overturned chair—a man stood swaying, his hand to his throat—trying to speak—trying…Then suddenly, his figure seemed to crumple up. He pitched headlong.
It was Colonel Clapperton.
VI
Poirot and the ship’s doctor rose from their knees by the prostrate figure.
‘All over, I’m afraid. Heart,’ said the doctor briefly.
Poirot nodded. ‘The shock of having his trick seen through,’ he said.
He turned to General Forbes. ‘It was you, General, who gave me a valuable hint with your mention of the music hall stage. I puzzle—I think—and then it comes to me. Supposing that before the war Clapperton was a ventriloquist. In that case, it would be perfectly possible for three people to hear Mrs Clapperton speak from inside her cabin when she was already dead…’
Ellie Henderson was beside him. Her eyes were dark and full of pain. ‘Did you know his heart was weak?’ she asked.
‘I guessed it…Mrs Clapperton talked of her own heart being affected, but she struck me as the type of woman who likes to be thought ill. Then I picked up a torn prescription with a very strong dose of digitalin in it. Digitalin is a heart medicine but it couldn’t be Mrs Clapperton’s because digitalin dilates the pupils of the eyes. I have never noticed such a phenomenon with her—but when I looked at his eyes I saw the signs at once.’
Ellie murmured: ‘So you thought—it might end—this way?’
‘The best way, don’t you think, mademoiselle?’ he said gently.
He saw the tears rise in her eyes. She said: ‘You’ve known. You’ve known all along…That I cared…But he didn’t do it for me…It was those girls—youth—it made him feel his slavery. He wanted to be free before it was too late…Yes, I’m sure that’s how it was…When did you guess—that it was he?’
‘His self-control was too perfect,’ said Poirot simply. ‘No matter how galling his wife’s conduct, it never seemed to touch him. That meant either that he was so used to it that it no longer stung him, or else—eh bien—I decided on the latter alternative…And I was right…
‘And then there was his insistence on his conjuring ability—the evening before the crime he pretended to give himself away. But a man like Clapperton doesn’t give himself away. There must be a reason. So long as people thought he had been a conjuror they weren’t likely to think of his having been a ventriloquist.’
‘And the voice we heard—Mrs Clapperton’s voice?’
‘One of the stewardesses had a voice not unlike hers. I induced her to hide behind the stage and taught her the words to say.’
‘It was a trick—a cruel trick,’ cried out Ellie.
‘I do not approve of murder,’ said Hercule Poirot.
How Does Your Garden Grow?
I
Hercule Poirot arranged his letters in a neat pile in front of him. He picked up the topmost letter, studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit the back of the envelope with a little paper-knife that he kept on the breakfast table for that express purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax and marked ‘Private and Confidential’.
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose a little on his egg-shaped head. He murmured, ‘Patience! Nous allons arriver!’ and once more brought the little paper-knife into play. This time the envelope yielded a letter—written in a rather shaky and spiky handwriting. Several words were heavily underlined.
Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter was headed once again ‘Private and Confidential’. On the right-hand side was the address—Rosebank, Charman’s Green, Bucks—and the date—March twenty-first.
Dear M. Poirot,
I have been recommended to you by an old and valued friend of mine who knows the worry and distress I have been in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual circumstances—those I have kept entirely to myself—the matter being strictly private. My friend assures me that you are discretion itself—and that there will be no fear of my being involved in a police matter which, if my suspicions should prove correct, I should very much dislike. But it is of course possible that I am entirely mistaken. I do not feel myself clear-headed enough nowadays—suffering as I do from insomnia and the result of a severe illness last winter—to investigate things for myself. I have neither the means nor the ability. On the other hand, I must reiterate once more that this is a very delicate family matter and that for many reasons I may want the whole thing hushed up. If I am once assured of the facts, I can deal with the matter myself and should prefer to do so. I hope that I have made myself clear on this point. If you will undertake this investigation perhaps you will let me know to the above address?