To prevent his mood from deteriorating further, I offered to carry his suitcase up the stairs.We had made it no further than the first half landing when there was a loud banging on the front door, as if someone was throwing their entire body weight against it, followed by the sound of running feet, bolts being drawn back, and the door opening. “Some fool locked us out!” a voice bellowed. I recognized it as belonging to Dr. Osgood. A woman with a high-pitched voice that I had not heard before started to apologize to him. “Was it you who locked us out?” Osgood demanded.
“No, no, it was not.” She sounded like a frightened mouse.
“Then why are you sorry? Don’t be a fool, Janet!”
Ah, so the meek voice was Maddie’s sister. She sounded nothing like her.
“Stop yelling at her, Robert,” came Felix Rawcliffe’s voice. “We are now inside, thanks to Janet.”
“Le docteur, he is not a happy man,” Poirot whispered.
“Speaking of your sudden interest in happy men—” I began, but got no further. It was as if my words had summoned an example of the very commodity I was describing. Down the stairs came bounding toward us a skeletally thin elderly man with a full head of reddish brown hair and a face so crumpled and lined that his features looked odd poking out from amid the creases. He seemed able to hop about with the agility of a mountain goat all the same. His eyes were large, grey and bright. “Hercule Poirot? Is it really you? It is! It is the great, theremarkable, Poirot, here at Frelly! This truly is the greatest moment of my life. And—how rude of me, I’m so sorry—InspectorCatchpool, the right-hand man of the greatest mind in the world. Welcome, welcome, gentlemen! I am Arnold Laurier. I could not be more thrilled to meet you both and to welcome you to my home.”
“It is most generous of you to accommodate us,” said Poirot. “Especially in your state of health.”
“My state of lethal decrepitude, do you mean?” Laurier chuckled. Then he looked impatient suddenly, as if his fun had been spoiled by a triviality—a reminder that a dog needed walking or something of that nature. “Shall we get the boring bit out of the way?” he said. “You have been told that I am dying, which is true, but it is quite the least interesting thing about me and we need not discuss it further. Now, if there is time—” he produced a gold watch from his pocket. “Ah, yes, we have a good few minutes. Excellent. Please follow me, gentlemen.”
He skipped off down the stairs at a surprisingly fast pace and without a backward glance. I looked at Poirot, who shrugged and said, “Let us go. Leaveles valiseshere on the landing. We can only pray that nobody will take the opportunity to dress up in our clothes or throw them away.”
“Gentlemen?” Arnold Laurier beamed up at us from the entrance hall. “Hurry, or we might miss our chance. It is important that I speak to you both before supper-time—and before anyone else gets hold of you.”
Chapter 6
Arnold Offers a Deal
Arnold Laurier wasted no time once the three of us were in his study with the door closed. “You will have been told by my wife, or by your mother, inspector—probably both—that a man by the name of Stanley Niven has been murdered. Vivienne will soon try to prevail upon you, if she has not done so already, to exert your influence in a particular direction that she considers prudent. She wants me to give up on my plan to solve Niven’s murder—for my own good, she insists. Well, you needn’t bother. It will be a waste of your efforts. My mind is made up. I am the patient, and ought therefore to have the primary say in what becomes of me, would you not agree?”
Poirot gave a small nod. I copied the gesture while trying not to shiver. It was uncomfortably cold in this high-ceilinged room, with an empty grate where a fire ought to have been. Each new onslaught of wind shook the glass panes as the icy air whistled in around the windows. Poirot must have been suffering, I thought; he was forevercomplaining about the inability of the English to heat their homes adequately.
The walls of Arnold Laurier’s study were covered with shelves, into which leather-bound books were crammed, and framed portraits, mainly of men with the same red-brown hair as our host. Looking at them, I remembered something else I had heard from Mother: Arnold Laurier was born into great wealth. He need never have worked a day in his life, but he was passionate about... was it mathematics? Science? History? Whatever it was, he had taught the subject because he was passionate about it and felt strongly about making a valuable contribution to the world and leaving it a better place. And—another detail I recalled—he was reluctant to spend money on himself, but happy to spend it on anything that might benefit his two sons. He and his wife were both determined to bequeath to their children as much as possible, and lived very frugally in order that their sons should be able to do the opposite for the rest of their lives.
Like Frellingsloe House’s entrance hall, this study contained a vertiginous Christmas tree, decorated minimally and only at the bottom, as if someone had been called away urgently after hanging the first few jeweled baubles.
“Gentlemen, I should like you to know... Wait.” Laurier arranged himself in a high-backed leather armchair the color of my old school uniform. I’d always thought of it as “dried blood.” “I have felt a thousand times better since I started to apply my mind to this unsolved murder,” Laurier said. “I have told Vivienne the same thing: if she wishesme to live for as long as possible, and she does, then the most sensible thing to do is let me pursue my investigation. There is only so much I can do from here, of course, but after Christmas I shall be admitted to St. Walstan’s and then I can properly get to work.”
Poirot said nothing. Again, I followed his lead.
Laurier, who had perhaps been hoping for an instant and resounding endorsement of his plan, looked rather put out. “Poirot, tell me the truth. Do not hold back! Do I look to you like a person with nothing further to contribute to this world? Or do you see a man with a spring in his step?”
Apart from his creased and slightly yellow skin, Laurier seemed far more spirited and energetic than any dying person I had ever met before.
“All of this is not at all to say that I do not feel heartily sorry for poor Stanley Niven,” Laurier went on. “I do. It is terrible, what happened to him. A horrible injustice. He was a lovely chap, too. A thoroughly decent fellow. That is what spurs me on, do you see? That, and—yes, I will admit it—the challenge of solving the puzzle in true Poirot fashion. Now, my wife would have you believe that it would be in my best interests ifyouwere to solve Niven’s murder instead of me—she and Cynthia have brought you here to do precisely that. They hope to prolong my life by an extra three weeks, or four or five, or some such pointlessness. I beg of you, Poirot: think of how you would feel in my situation. Would you choose to play it safe or to put yourself in harm’s way in order to solve a murder in your usual brilliant fashion?”
This struck me as a tactic that might work with Poirot. I was fairly sure that, were he in Laurier’s position, he would feel exactly as Laurier did.
“Allow me to have this one triumph before I die, Poirot. Please. I know I can do it. I have read about your cases, studied your methods. For some time I have thought of myself as your unknown apprentice, even before I had an unsolved murder to sink my teeth into. And with Niven’s murder having happened at the very hospital that has been earmarked for me, and in the adjacent room, no less... This will sound fanciful, but I believe that Fate has marked this matter as being for my specific attention.” Laurier exhaled slowly. There was a rattling sound to his breath. He said, “I would be immensely grateful if the two of us—the three of us—could make a bargain here in this room today.”
“What bargain, monsieur?”
“I am aware that it must go against your every instinct to leave a murder unsolved, particularly when my wife has summoned you to achieve the opposite result. And, you might be wondering, why should you stand aside for my sake? I have never before caught a killer. What if I fail? Poirot, Inspector Catchpool... I ask you for one month only. If within one month of my taking up residence at St. Walstan’s, I have not solved the crime, then it is all yours. Is that really so long to wait? It has already been more than three months since the murder occurred. How can another month make a difference one way or the other?”
“Monsieur—” Poirot tried to cut in.
“If you are inclined to refuse my request, and I am aware that it would not be unreasonable of you to do so, then I have another one for you. This is not my first choice but I could live with it: we work on the case together. I proceed to St. Walstan’s after Christmas as planned, and I act as your agent on the inside, as it were. The three of us—you, me and Catchpool here—put our heads together and work as a team of detectives.”
Suggesting one’s second preference before one’s first has been refused struck me as a poor tactic.
“Neither of the avenues you suggest will please your wife,” said Poirot. “If you were my agent on the hospital’s inside, her fear that you might attract the attention of Monsieur Niven’s killer—”
