“I see,” said Poirot.
“Nobody can stop me from going to St. Walstan’s after Christmas if I am set on it, and I am.” Laurier grinned, as if his declaration of defiance were bound to be a source of amusement and delight to all present. “Surely you agree, Poirot: it makes sense that we should tackle this case together, does it not, rather than working on it separately?”
At that moment, the door of Arnold Laurier’s study opened and in walked a woman who might have been anywhere between sixty and seventy. She had hollow cheeks,large green eyes, and seemed much too thin for her height—as if she ought to have had more padding on her bones.
She wore a long dress, I think, though I might be misremembering that detail; it was hard to focus on anything but her face, which was quite the most uncelebratory countenance I had ever seen: a mixture of disapproval, anger, sadness and dread. I could not tell if she was about to weep or punch each of us on the nose in turn; certainly nothing pleasant was going to happen. It was as if a heavy cloud of pain had filled the room. I wondered if Poirot felt it too.
“Vivienne!” Arnold seemed delighted by her arrival. “I was just—”
“—disregarding all danger, and my feelings,” she finished his sentence for him in a voice much quieter and softer than I had expected. “Telling Monsieur Poirot and Inspector Catchpool that you are quite happy to be murdered.”
She had been listening outside the door for some time, then.
“Must you be so dramatic, dear?” Laurier’s tone was gentle. “I want you to be able to enjoy my great achievement once I am gone. I want you to be able to say, ‘My husband solved a murder while at death’s door,’ and feel proud.”
“I am not here to argue with you, Arnold,” said his wife. “Did I not say this morning that I have given up? I meant it. I am here only to tell you that Enid has announced dinner as being ready. Which means it will be ready in about half an hour, I expect. Our guests have not yet beenup to their rooms or unpacked. They will be grateful for a chance to settle in before we eat. You can speak to them later this evening. After dinner there will be plenty of time.”
“I do hope so,” said Laurier. “There is another matter, very close to my heart, about which I am eager to consult you, Poirot. It has nothing at all to do with Stanley Niven or St. Walstan’s Hospital—it is about a life that might yet be saved.”
I was puzzled by this. Searching his wife’s face for clues as to his possible meaning, I found none: she simply watched him with her big, sad, green eyes until he stopped speaking. Then, still without reacting in any way, she turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Another person might have delivered her “I have given up” speech as an attempt to manipulate their spouse, but she had sounded only sorrowful, as if she truly had dispensed with all hopeful feelings forever.
Poirot gave me a familiar order with his eyes: this was the one he reserved for occasions when he believed urgent action of the physical sort was required. His message was clear: “Now, without delay.”
Naturally, I obeyed. Putting aside my reluctance to follow the pain-cloud to another part of the house, I stood up, excused myself and set off on in pursuit of Vivienne Laurier.
Chapter 7
A Conversation with Vivienne Laurier
“Mrs. Laurier!”
Finally, I had caught up and could see her. She had reached the same half-landing on which Poirot and I had abandoned our suitcases a short while ago. They were no longer there. I hoped mine had been taken to my room, and wondered if I would have a chance to verify its whereabouts before dinner. No individual person nor any kind of generalized system seemed to be in charge at Frellingsloe House. It felt quite possible that my possessions had been spirited off somewhere, never to return.
Hearing me call out, Vivienne Laurier stopped and turned. “Inspector Catchpool.”
“Edward, please.”
“Edward,” she agreed after a moment’s pause. “And you must call me Vivienne.”
I realized I did not know what Poirot would have me say to her next. Was he, at this moment, agreeing to appoint her husband as his right-hand man in the investigation ofStanley Niven’s murder, or was he explaining with great regret that it would not be possible? Ignorant of his preferred approach, I resolved to proceed as impartially as I could.
Vivienne Laurier reached out and touched my arm with no apparent purpose in mind: one light tap with the tips of her fingers. “I am so sorry,” she said. “So dreadfully sorry.” She looked distraught. “What a reprehensible way for me to greet guests who have traveled all the way from London in this hellish weather. I should have said a proper hello and welcome to you and Monsieur Poirot. Sometimes I forget that not everybody is trapped in my nightmare with me. Please forgive me. I am glad to have you here. I shall say so to Monsieur Poirot when I see him at dinner.”
“Thank you. And there is nothing at all to forgive.”
“You are very kind. Cynthia has told me so much about her wonderful, handsome, clever son.”
I tried not to wince at this. Mother never said anything complimentary to me for my own sake. She never had, though I had heard her praise-boast about me as a way of elevating her own social capital in the eyes of others.
“Now that I have met you, I am not at all surprised that you are such a source of pride to her,” said Vivienne. “She adores you, you know. I am so pleased for her sake that you are able to spend the coming Christmas with her. Family is so important. The young do not always know it. I am sure you do, Edward, as an only child. It must be hard without...”
Whatever she had been about to say, she thought betterof it. Instead, she produced a rather artificial smile and said, “In any case, Cynthia is overjoyed, and it does me good to see her happy. It is like being cold in your bones and knowing there is a roaring fire nearby, even if its warmth cannot reach you. One is still grateful it is there.”
The cloud of pain surrounding Vivienne Laurier was heavy enough without me adding to it. Now was not the time to explain that I had not agreed to spend Christmas with Mother, nor did it seem an opportune moment to point out that a roaring fire, or preferably twenty of them, was exactly what Frellingsloe House needed—that and some more Christmas tree decorations.
I assured myself that I did not need to say it out loud in order to make it true: I would not be spending Christmas in this house. My resolve grew stronger each time someone told me otherwise.
