“Indeed, she is unlikely to be the killer,” said Poirot. “However, we can learn something valuable from her example: an unreasonable person might see a strong motive for hatred, perhaps even murder, where a reasonable one perceives nothing untoward, or nothing at all. This is worth keeping in mind. A truly deranged motive might be invisible to sane men such as ourselves,mon ami.”
“Mr. Hurt-His-Head, on the other hand...” I said. “Now there’s a valuable lead if ever there was one. I don’t know about you, but I plan to tell Inspector Mackle tomorrow—this morning, in fact—that he would do well to—”
“Non.” Poirot cut me off. “You will say nothing to Inspector Mackle. I shall go alone to the police station and to the hospital.”
“But—”
“I have other plans for you, here at Frellingsloe House: among other things, the decorating of many Christmas trees.”
“What?” I spat out the word in disgust.
“What better way to contrive to be spoken to, perhaps confided in, by several members of this household, eh? You are sure to pick up all sorts of interesting morsels. Already you have overheard something fascinating and inexplicable,n’est-ce pas?”
“Poirot, for pity’s sake, do not—”
“Catchpool,” said my friend in a tone of stern finality.
I fell silent. It was the lack of choice that was hard to stomach, so I determined, in that moment, to make it a choice. I chose, as wholeheartedly as I was able to, complete obedience to Poirot; I had made the same decision many times before.
“It makes no sense for both of us to be in the same place,mon ami. We must deploy our resources in the most effective fashion. To leave Frellingsloe House unsupervised by at least one of us would be reckless indeed. Here you will be ideally placed to find out about the Lauriers andthe Surteeses, Dr. Osgood and Felix Rawcliffe: their relationships, their secrets.”
Next out of my friend’s mouth came five words that turned my guts to ice: “Your mother agrees with me,” he said.
Chapter 12
A Sea Swim, a Bath and a List
I spent the first two hours of the next day (it was, strictly speaking, a continuation of the same day, but in my book a day begins only at six in the morning) feeling bitter and suspicious. Those words—“Your mother agrees with me”—had affected my mind as rotting meat affects the body. My first thought, upon hearing them, was: “Poirot must not see that I am upset.” No doubt I am an aberration in this respect as in so many, but for me distress has always brought with it a fear that someone will detect my true psychological state. The dread of being “found out” is always the worst aspect of the ordeal.
I had therefore made sure to seem as chipper as I could at breakfast, even when Mother sat down beside me and told me, chirpily, that she would show me where to find all the bags and boxes full of Christmas tree decorations. “Tell me sincerely, Mother,” I said, employing what charm I could muster in the hope of getting to the truth. “Poirot says this Christmas trees plan was his idea and that youmerely endorsed it... but do I detect the genius of Cynthia Catchpool behind the scenes, too modest to take the credit?”
Only once or twice in my life had I flattered Mother so outrageously—always when I had wanted something from her—yet I knew she would not suspect a thing. In her assessment, I ought to have been lavishing praise upon her every day from dawn until dusk. Besides, she was a person who chose to believe in the world as she thought it should be, in preference to the world as it truly was—so when I aimed a compliment at her, she never questioned it. “Don’t be silly, Edward,” she said. “If Monsieur Poirot told you it was his idea, why would you doubt it?”
“I think you probably told him that I would take it better if it came from him.”
She denied it all, and I told her it was no skin off my nose either way, as I was looking forward to the Christmas trees project.
After breakfast, as I walked along the path that ran from Frellingsloe House’s door to the steps that led down to the sea, I heard Mother’s voice call out my name. I turned and saw her hurrying to catch up with me.
“Are you a lunatic?” she demanded, eyeing the rolled-up towel in my hands. “You surely to do not intend to swim in the ocean in Norfolk—in winter? You will die.”
“No, I won’t. I shall only stay in for a short while. Two minutes at most. I’ve done it before. You know that perfectly well. As I recall, you mentioned sea-swimming in your initial attempt to lure me here for Christmas.”
“I did not!” Mother lied.
“Yes, you did. A brief immersion in very icy water is invigorating. You should try it.” I was looking forward to the divine shock of cold sea making the blood in my veins zing. Perhaps it would drive away my lingering resentment at the knowledge that Poirot and Mother had conspired to arrange my day’s activities.
Before breakfast, I had watched from the dining-room window as Poirot had been driven off in a car sent by Inspector Mackle. First he would go to the police station and then on from there to the hospital. Lucky old him.
“Well, it is no business of mine if you wish to freeze to death.” Mother turned and strode away.
I proceeded in the opposite direction, and was stopped once more by her calling my name. This time she made it clear that she expected me to walk over to her. I did so, cursing under my breath. When I reached her, she lowered her eyes and said quietly, “There is no need to be horrid to me, Edward. One day you will have children and you will understand that no parent has a child hoping that he will grow up to be horrid. Or maybe you won’t ever have children, and I shall end up like poor Enid Surtees, who is quite desperate to be a grandmother, but it seems that both her daughters... Well, there is either something wrong with them or with the two Laurier boys, perhaps something that runs in the family—”
Mother stopped suddenly. Then she said, “I cannot even talk to you about perfectly ordinary things, without you being determined to turn it into something it is not.”
I pointed out that I had said and done nothing.
“Oh, I saw the look on your face. What possible connection could there be between Enid’s desire for grandchildren and the murder of Stanley Niven? Enid was not at the hospital that day—she was here. She did not know Mr. Niven. None of us did.”
