Poirot Investigates - Agatha Christie (classic books for 13 year olds .TXT) 📗

was a Christian Scientist⁠—or something of that kind.”

“But you examined the body?”

“Certainly. I was fetched by one of the under-gardeners.”

“And the cause of death was clear?”

“Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding must have been internal.”

“Was he still lying where he had been found?”

“Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying at the edge of a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a small rook rifle lay beside him. The haemorrhage must have occurred quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer, without a doubt.”

“No question of his having been shot, eh?”

“My dear sir!”

“I demand pardon,” said Poirot humbly. “But, if my memory is not at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart failure⁠—altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!”

“You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr. Maltravers,” said Dr. Bernard dryly. “Now, gentlemen, if there is nothing further⁠—”

We took the hint.

“Good morning, and many thanks to you, doctor, for so kindly answering our questions. By the way, you saw no need for an autopsy?”

“Certainly not.” The doctor became quite apoplectic. “The cause of death was clear, and in my profession we see no need to distress unduly the relatives of a dead patient.”

And, turning, the doctor slammed the door sharply in our faces.

“And what do you think of Dr. Bernard, Hastings?” inquired Poirot, as we proceeded on our way to the Manor.

“Rather an old ass.”

“Exactly. Your judgments of character are always profound, my friend.”

I glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly serious. A twinkle, however, came into his eye, and he added slyly:

“That is to say, when there is no question of a beautiful woman!”

I looked at him coldly.

On our arrival at the manor-house, the door was opened to us by a middle-aged parlourmaid. Poirot handed her his card, and a letter from the Insurance Company for Mrs. Maltravers. She showed us into a small morning-room, and retired to tell her mistress. About ten minutes elapsed, and then the door opened, and a slender figure in widow’s weeds stood upon the threshold.

“Monsieur Poirot?” she faltered.

“Madame!” Poirot sprang gallantly to his feet and hastened towards her. “I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way. But what will you? Les affaires⁠—they know no mercy.”

Mrs. Maltravers permitted him to lead her to a chair. Her eyes were red with weeping, but the temporary disfigurement could not conceal her extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-seven or eight, and very fair, with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting mouth.

“It is something about my husband’s insurance, is it? But must I be bothered now⁠—so soon?”

“Courage, my dear Madame. Courage! You see, your late husband insured his life for rather a large sum, and in such a case the Company always has to satisfy itself as to a few details. They have empowered me to act for them. You can rest assured that I will do all in my power to render the matter not too unpleasant for you. Will you recount to me briefly the sad events of Wednesday?”

“I was changing for tea when my maid came up⁠—one of the gardeners had just run to the house. He had found⁠—”

Her voice trailed away. Poirot pressed her hand sympathetically.

“I comprehend. Enough! You had seen your husband earlier in the afternoon?”

“Not since lunch. I had walked down to the village for some stamps, and I believe he was out pottering round the grounds.”

“Shooting rooks, eh?”

“Yes, he usually took his little rook rifle with him, and I heard one or two shots in the distance.”

“Where is this little rook rifle now?”

“In the hall, I think.”

She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little weapon to Poirot, who examined it cursorily.

“Two shots fired, I see,” he observed, as he handed it back. “And now, madame, if I might see⁠—”

He paused delicately.

“The servant shall take you,” she murmured, averting her head.

The parlourmaid, summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with the lovely and unfortunate woman. It was hard to know whether to speak or remain silent. I essayed one or two general reflections to which she responded absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot rejoined us.

“I thank you for all your courtesy, madame. I do not think you need be troubled any further with this matter. By the way, do you know anything of your husband’s financial position?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing whatever. I am very stupid over business things.”

“I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided to insure his life? He had not done so previously, I understand.”

“Well, we had only been married a little over a year. But, as to why he insured his life, it was because he had absolutely made up his mind that he would not live long. He had a strong premonition of his own death. I gather that he had had one haemorrhage already, and that he knew that another one would prove fatal. I tried to dispel these gloomy fears of his, but without avail. Alas, he was only too right!”

Tears in her eyes, she bade us a dignified farewell. Poirot made a characteristic gesture as we walked down the drive together.

“Eh bien, that is that! Back to London, my friend, there appears to be no mouse in this mouse-hole. And yet⁠—”

“Yet what?”

“A slight discrepancy, that is all! You noticed it? You did not? Still, life is full of discrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot have taken his own life⁠—there is no poison that would fill his mouth with blood. No, no, I must resign myself to the fact that all here is clear and aboveboard⁠—but who is this?”

A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed us without making any sign, but I noted that he was not ill-looking, with a lean, deeply bronzed face that spoke of life in a