“There you are! What are you...? Is that thing clean?” Yes, that was definitely Vivienne Laurier’s voice. She was not speaking to us.
Next, I heard Arnold: “Hello, dear. Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I was cold.”
“That thing looks moth-eaten,” said Vivienne.
“It’s as clean as I need it to be,” her husband replied. “Do not fuss.”
“Go, Catchpool,” Poirot whispered, inclining his head. I knew what he meant, though I could scarcely believe it. He wanted me to see Arnold Laurier with my own eyes; both of us hearing him speak was apparently not evidence enough of his continued presence in our mortal realm.
I crept as quietly as I could toward the top of the stairs. From this vantage point I saw Arnold clearly. Wrapped around his shoulders was a blanket: rust-colored stripes alternating with yellow ones. I agreed with his wife’s assessment: it looked fuzzy, matted, and suitable only for a dog’s basket.
“It was him?” Poirot asked when I returned to his side.
“Of course it was him. You plainly believe him to be atgreat risk, and not only from his illness. Will you please tell me why?”
Poirot regarded me calmly. Maintaining his infuriating silence, he passed me Arnold Laurier’s letter without any further prevarication.
Chapter 11
The Two Leads
Once Poirot and I were back in my room with the door closed, I unfolded the sheets of paper and began to read. The first thing that leapt out at me was that I had been put into parentheses for no reason that I could fathom. The letter was addressed to “Dear M. Poirot (and Inspector Catchpool).” This irked me, but I set it aside as a petty distraction and tried to concentrate on what Arnold Laurier had written:
As my illness has progressed, my sleep patterns have become unpredictable. M. Poirot—when you left my study to ready yourself for dinner this evening (yesterday evening, I suppose I should say, since it is now three o’clock in the morning), I intended to do the same, after taking a short and efficient nap in my chair. Usually I close my eyes and open them again between three and five minutes later, feeling substantially refreshed. On this occasion, alas, I awoke to find that two hours had passedand I had missed dinner entirely. Never mind: dear old Enid is not the world’s finest cook, and my appetite is not what it used to be in any case.
I stood up, hoping to seek you both out, apologize for my inadequacy as a host, and recommence our discussion of the murder of Stanley Niven. Once I was up on my feet, unfortunately, it became evident that I was still comprehensively exhausted. I did not in any way feel like one of the brightest and best of the sons of the morning. You will not understand this if you have never been gravely ill (and I hope you are feeling much better after your peculiar turn), but there was only one course of action I could contemplate...
“I do not like the sound of your ‘peculiar turn,’” I told Poirot. “After such an event, you need to take good care of yourself.”
“Do not agitate yourself, Catchpool.”
“The food we are expected to eat here can hardly be considered proper nourishment. Please allow me to find us rooms elsewhere.”
“Non.Close observation of the inhabitants of Frellingsloe House will be required. Here is where we must stay, though our stomachs will not thank us for it.”
“Why must we be here? Nobody in this house killed Stanley Niven. How will observing them help us?”
“You take too much for granted, Catchpool. Five members of the Laurier family were in the room next to Monsieur Niven’s at the very moment that he was being murdered.”
“In the room next door, yes. With the door closed. Not in the room where Stanley—”
“Do you know that the door was closed for the whole time they were in there?”
“Well...”
“Ah, you have heard that they all said so,n’est-ce pas? And a nurse who was with them said so too.” Poirot shook his head. “So far we have spoken to nobody about the events of 8 September apart from Dr. Robert Osgood.Eh bien, he was also at the hospital that day, also on Ward 6. And where were the other residents of Frellingsloe House? The curate, Monsieur Rawcliffe? Enid and Terence Surtees? Arnold Laurier himself? Where were they, Catchpool?”
“They were allnotat the hospital that day.”
“Bien sûr, this is what we have been told.” Poirot smiled. “Also, we are encouraged to believe that Stanley Niven was not personally known to anyone at Frellingsloe House—he was a complete stranger to them all—so there can have been no possible reason for anybody living here to murder him. This was contradicted by Arnold Laurier, was it not? Monsieur Laurier informed us that he and Monsieur Niven had met at St. Walstan’s in August. I was surprised to hear that, and I believe you were too. Why? Why were we both so secure in our assumption that Stanley Niven and Arnold Laurier had never met?Because we had been briefed in a manner both precise and thorough.”
“Then... are you saying you believe Niven wasn’t a stranger to the Lauriers, and that someone in this house killed him?”
A weary look had appeared on my friend’s face. “No, Catchpool. I intended to say only that you assume too much. I try to correct you and what happens? You rush to assume too much in the opposite direction. Please,mon ami,” he nodded at the letter, “continue to read, if you can decipher Monsieur Laurier’s handwriting.”
I did as I was told. The letter continued as follows:
... but there was only one course of action I could contemplate: getting myself into bed and back to sleep as soon as possible. I would have been no use to you at all, M. Poirot, or to poor, late Stanley Niven, if I had attempted any other enterprise. Please forgive what must have seemed to be unpardonable rudeness on my part. Believe me, the very last thing I wanted to do was miss the first evening of you being here at Frelly. I am delighted to know that I will have many other opportunities to spend time with you and learn from you, since you are to be with us for the whole of the Christmas holiday.
