“May I read it, please?”
He made no move to pass it to me. “All in good time,mon ami. Tell me: do you have anything to report? What did Vivienne Laurier say when you spoke to her?”
I knew from extensive experience that he was not asking for a mere summary; he expected me to omit nothing. I spent nearly half an hour telling him in detail everything that Vivienne Laurier and I had said to one another, and then I reconstructed for his benefit the conversation I had overheard on my way up to bed.
“And the man speaking to Vivienne Laurier was Monsieur Rawcliffe? You are certain?”
“I would hardly mistake him for anyone else,” I said. “You can hear his teeth in his voice.”
Poirot nodded. “This conversation you overheard... it seems to make no sense,” he said. “Who is this stranger living under the roof of Frellingsloe House that Vivienne Laurier either does or does not love? We have met everyonewho lives here. Not one of them is a stranger to Madame Laurier.”
“The stranger and the ‘him’ referred to must be two different people,” I concluded. “Oh, and I must say, I do not agree with Dr. Osgood. He led us to believe that Vivienne Laurier’s predominant emotion is fear, but that was not how she struck me at all, neither when I was speaking to her nor when I was eavesdropping on her and the curate. The overwhelming impression I got was of a deep sadness and despair.”
Suddenly, I knew what it was that I meant to say. “She strikes me as devoid of all hope. Fear, by necessity, contains an element of hope—only no one would think so, because we conceive of the two as opposites: frightened people are miserable, whereas the hopeful are jolly and contended. Yet it is undeniable that fear has a sort of frenzied hope as one of its ingredients.”
“That is an interesting idea, certainly,” said Poirot.
“It is odd. Now that you are here, why is she not confident that you will catch the killer? She asked if I believed you would and I told her I did, but that did nothing to lift her spirits. Oh—she mentioned somebody called Mr. Hurt-His-Head.”
“You will read all about him in this letter.” Poirot held it aloft but still did not pass it to me.
“Speaking of jolly and contented people, what was it about Stanley Niven being a happy man that aroused your interest?” I asked him.
He looked surprised. “I have at no point said that I am interested in the happiness of Monsieur Niven.”
“No, you have not. But you are, aren’t you? Very much so. Why?”
“Such happiness is unusual. That is all.”
“It is quite plainly not all. I suppose, as always, you will tell me when you are ready. Is there anything in Arnold Laurier’s letter about Frellingsloe House?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did he talk about the house, once I had left the study?”
“Non.Why do you ask?”
“His son, Jonathan, said that Arnold plans to ask for your help with something. He implied it was a house-related matter.”
“Non. Monsieur Laurier said nothing about it. We spoke for hardly any time after you left.”
“May I see the letter?” I asked in a tone that I hoped sounded fresh and inspired, as if the idea of my reading it had only just occurred to me.
“You may. Though first you will do me a favor, please. It will require going downstairs.”
I sighed. “You want me to check that Arnold Laurier is still breathing.”
Poirot nodded. “The snoring we both heard—it has stopped. Also, it occurs to me only now that it was suspiciously loud.”
“It must be contagious, this belief that Arnold Laurier will be Stanley Niven’s murderer’s next victim,” I said.
“Very amusing,” said Poirot. “I shall give you this letter to read as soon as you return,mon ami. I am sure you will find it as fascinating as I did.”
“Do you really believe that whoever killed Niven is here at Frellingsloe House tonight?” I asked him. “Why, for goodness’ sake?”
At that moment, we both heard a woman’s voice: “Arnold? Is that you up there?” It was coming from the floor below ours. It sounded like Vivienne.
I heard a door open or shut; it was hard to tell which. I stepped out on to the landing. Poirot followed me.
