“She was also betrayed by her sister, who was herself in love with the same man, and envious. There was an illegitimate child, who was brought up by a friend.”
“You must have been awake if you were thinking about all of that,” I said.
“Non. I slept deeply, as I said. And I did not dream. Instead, I did the sleep-thinking.”
I decided it was not worth arguing with him. “Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by,” I quoted from the carol “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
“It made me think, Catchpool, how foolish and unnecessary is the feud between Maddie and Janet Laurier, assuming they have told the truth about its cause. They love two quite different brothers, not the same brother! Why could they not have remained friends?” He shook his head. “Tragedy, Catchpool—it is an organism with many sub-species.”
“Poirot, now that you are well again—” I began.
“You wish to enquire about our imperiled Christmas plans,n’est-ce pas?”
“Today is the twenty-third of December. If we are going to spend Christmas in London, we will need to leave today or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” said Poirot.
“Really?” My heart leapt.
“I think so. I have elevated hopes,” he said seriously.“Everything points to a particular person. The only trouble is that the person I have in mind has no connection to Stanley Niven that we know of, and therefore no reason to want him dead. Unless Sergeant James Wight has told you otherwise?”
“No. He telephoned yesterday to say he is waiting for one more piece of information which will arrive this morning. As soon as he has it, he will send word.”
“Good,” said Poirot. “I expect the information he provides to complete the picture.”
We left the hospital and made our way to Douglas Laurier’s motorcar. Never had I been so pleased to leave a place behind. It was an unusually bright day for late December, with only a handful of thin, almost translucent clouds that looked like white frost against the chilly blue sky. The weather conditions were perfect for a discussion in which Poirot, for once, told me his thoughts and theories without withholding anything. “I don’t suppose you fancy telling me whom you suspect?” I said as I drove us along the coastal road. The sea was calm and still.
“Of course,” he said. “I suspect the one person whose untrustworthiness and unreliability is so glaring, it can hardly be missed.”
“Janet Laurier? Jonathan Laurier?” I said. When there was no response, I tried again: “Dr. Osgood? He is my favorite for it, I don’t mind telling you. His only alibi for the ten minutes between twenty and thirty minutes past two on 8 September is Nurse Olga Woodruff, his fiancée.”
“The outward appearance of an alibi which turns out,upon closer examination, not to be an alibi at all,” said Poirot. “Tell me, Catchpool, what alibis have you been offered by the four residents of Frellingsloe House whom I asked about: Enid and Terence Surtees, Felix Rawcliffe and Arnold Laurier?”
“I am afraid I have not yet had time to attend to all that. Or, to be strictly accurate, I was not in a fit state to do much of anything yesterday. I spent a lot of time walking by the sea, avoiding the house and Mother.” Before Poirot had a chance to admonish me, I said, “Will you please at least tell me what it was about Stanley Niven being a generally jolly chap that so interested you, when we first learned of his murder?” I managed to phrase the question without mentioning the unpalatable creature who had told us about the crime.
“It is quite simple,” said Poirot. “I had never before heard that said about a victim, not in all my tens of years of involvement in cases of murder. Oh, I had certainly heard that many victims had no enemies, did no harm to anybody, had no discernible cause of worry or misery in their lives, but I had never been told that a murder victim had been noticeable for his happiness. And what your mother said to us about Stanley Niven was even more than that—significantly more.”
“What do you mean?”
“She did not say merely that Monsieur Niven was happy by nature. He also, according to her,made others feel happy. It was impossible not to feel that way in his presence.”
“But Mother didn’t know Stanley Niven,” I protested.“She might have been talking nonsense, as she so often does.”
“It was enough for me that this was what was said about Monsieur Niven. It was how he was known and perceived: as a creator of happiness. I thought of all those other murder victims from my past, and I asked myself: of how many of them had this been said? Of how many might it have been true? The answer was none.None, Catchpool. It piqued my interest. People like Stanley Niven, who raise the spirits of others—they do not get murdered. Yet Monsieur Niven did. That is why I was so afraid for Arnold Laurier for so long. I persisted in believing that Madame Vivienne was right to believe her husband was in danger—from a murderer intent on removing happy men from the world, perhaps someone so deeply unhappy himself that he sought to destroy joy wherever he found it. Do you recall that your mother said how difficult it was ever to be angry with Arnold Laurier, because he was so jolly and happy?”
“I vaguely remember something of that sort, yes.”
“I suspected a similarity of character between the two men: Laurier and Niven. Still, if my suspicion as to the identity of Monsieur Niven’s killer is correct, then Arnold Laurier will not be the next victim. Indeed, until I discover the connection between Stanley Niven and Frellingsloe House, I have no way of knowing if there will be a second murder. Without motive, Catchpool, it is as if each and every little grey cell has been forced to wear a blindfold.”
We talked no more after that, and I spent the rest of the drive racking my brain to try and work out if Poirot hadadmitted to me that he too suspected Dr. Robert Osgood of Stanley Niven’s murder.The outward appearance of an alibi which turns out, upon closer examination, not to be an alibi at all. Those words did not amount to a declaration of suspicion of anyone in particular, though in context they might well have meant that Poirot suspected Osgood as much as I did. It was strange to think that the next communication I received from James Wight of Scotland Yard was likely to make the connection to, and motive for, Stanley Niven’s death quite clear.
Ten minutes later, I parked Douglas’s car on the gravel outside Frellingsloe House. I was about to open the door and get out when the front door of the house was flung open. Felix Rawcliffe staggered outside as if he had been pushed. His face was deathly white and there were purple patches beneath his eyes. “What on earth...?” I muttered.
“Mon Dieu!” Poirot whispered, and I heard in his voice the same anxiety I was feeling.
We alighted from the car and were hurrying toward the curate when another figure appeared behind him: Inspector Gerald Mackle.
“What has occurred, inspector?” said Poirot. “Tell me at once.”
