“And he is soon to be moved to St. Walstan’s, where hewill spend the remainder of his life,” said Mother. “On Ward 6, in fact. That is why this is such a pressing problem.”
“The last thing this Arnold fellow must want is two more houseguests,” I said. “Two strangers.”
“Oh, Hercule Poirot is anything but a stranger in Arnold’s mind. That’s why the two of you are going to stay until after Boxing—”
“Non, madame—”
“Until the day after Boxing Day. Yes, Monsieur Poirot. That will be Arnold’s special treat, you see, to replace the one that you’re about to deprive him of. But this new treat will be so much better: his last Christmas at his beloved Frelly, not only with his family but with his greathero.” She whispered the last word with especial reverence.
“What is Frelly?” Poirot asked.
“It’s a ridiculous pet name for the house—Frellingsloe House—that you and I are under no obligation to use,” I told him.
“Oh, Edward, don’t be such a sourpuss,” Mother snapped.
“Madame... you said that I am about to deprive Monsieur Laurier of a treat. What did you mean?”
“Oh, he will not mind at all! His new treat of spending Christmas with you—”
“Enough! I do not agree to the new treat.” Poirot spoke slowly and clearly. It amused me that he thought this approach might work with Mother. “My question was about the old treat. You tell me I am to deprive Arnold Laurier of something that is important to him, when I have no wish to deprive a dying man, and no notion of what is theoriginal treat he expects to receive. Please, madame, explain what you mean. Also: you will desist from telling me what I will and will not do, or I shall disembark at the next station and make my way home.”
“Goodness me, you men.” Mother shook her head. “You carry on as if I am trying to keep you in the dark, Monsieur Poirot, when my only wish is to tell you all about it. The original treat, as you call it—the one Arnold is looking forward to with the eager anticipation of a schoolboy for a snowball fight—is the solving of Stanley Niven’s murder. Solving ithimself, I mean. That is what he proposes to do, as soon as he is admitted to St. Walstan’s in the new year.” The train juddered, apparently as shocked as I was by this latest twist in the story. I had assumed that Arnold Laurier was in a weak and feeble condition, as the imminently dying tend to be.
“The poor, foolish man wants to be the one to catch the killer,” said Mother. “He will soon be ‘at the scene’ as he keeps saying with great relish, and perfectly situated to do some sleuthing. You are his inspiration, Monsieur Poirot. He claims to be well versed in your methods and keeps telling everyone that he knows he can do it—he, Arnold Laurier, will succeed where Inspector Mackle and his men have failed. If the police haven’t caught the culprit after three months of trying, then they probably never will—that is Arnold’s contention. He has been your most devoted fan for nearly ten years, ever since he heard from me all about your and Edward’s first case and how expertly you solved it. He is rather sweetly obsessed with you, I’m afraid. Ifthere has ever been even the tiniest mention of you in a newspaper, I promise you, Arnold has cut it out and glued it into his scrapbook. And since he is due to move to St. Walstan’s immediately after the Christmas holidays... well, his argument is that lying around in a hospital bed waiting to die is nowhere near as much fun as getting one’s teeth into a nice, juicy murder case—”
“There is nothing nice about murder,” I said.
“Well, quite, Edward.” Mother bestowed a rare, approving look upon me before returning her attention to Poirot. “That is why dear Vivienne is beside herself. She and Arnold have been blissfully happily married for forty years. She was in full agreement with the plan to send Arnold to St. Walstan’s until there was a murder there. Now, of course, the prospect fills her with horror. She’s terrified that, with a killer still at large in the hospital, Arnold might be the next victim—particularly if he announces to all and sundry that his mission is to find out the truth about who killed Stanley Niven. There is nothing subtle or understated about Arnold, and he will certainly tell all the doctors, all the other patients and anyone else who will listen that he’s ‘playing Poirot,’ as he calls it. He claims not to be afraid and doesn’t seem to understand Vivienne’s fear at all. Quite the opposite: he chortles like a child having its tummy tickled and says, ‘I’m dying anyway, darling,’ as if it’s all a big joke. ‘What’s the harm?’ he says. ‘I might as well die happy, with my brain working on something important, in the service of justice.’ He has always been too enthusiastic for his own good.”
“He is a happy man, Monsieur Laurier?” Poirot asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Mother. “Even before Stanley Niven was murdered and he had his crime-solving project to look forward to, he could always find something to be full of beans about. Even when Dr. Osgood told him that his time was running out. The first thing he said was, ‘Ah, but what a time I have had, Robert. What a time.’ Robert is Dr. Osgood’s Christian name,” Mother added unnecessarily. “If anyone else had adopted such a cavalier attitude to their own demise, I should have disapproved most heartily, but... it is somehow impossible to disapprove of Arnold. It’s his enthusiasm, you see.”
Poirot looked especially alert as he asked, “Might those who know him describe Arnold Laurier as jolly?”
“The word could have been invented to describe him,” said Mother.
“This, then, is a quality he shares—shared—with Stanley Niven?”
So I had been right: it was the mention of Niven’s cheerful character that had attracted Poirot’s particular interest. Now he seemed equally fascinated to learn that Arnold Laurier was also a happy and exuberant sort. Why, for pity’s sake?
“You are right,” said Mother. “That had not occurred to me. Please, do not mention this... temperamental similarity to Vivienne. She is already beside herself with worry about the other one.”
“The other what?” I asked.
“The other thing that Arnold and Stanley Niven have in common: Ward 6 at St. Walstan’s. Stanley Niven had aprivate room there—the room in which he was murdered. And the very next room on the ward is the one reserved for Arnold, into which he plans to move at the beginning of January. The two are separated only by a wall,” she said, as if she believed that something more impressive or substantial ought to separate two hospital rooms. “Of course, the hospital might agree to allocate Arnold a different room, but he will not hear of it. If he could, he would take the very room in which Mr. Niven was murdered. Nothing better than being ‘at the scene,’ he would think. He also refuses to stay at home and live out the remainder of his days at Frelly, though Vivienne has begged him to reconsider. That is why your visit to Munby is so important, Monsieur Poirot. No other plan can work. Believe me, I would not have disturbed you if it were not absolutely necessary. This is the only way. Vivienne will be profoundly grateful to you if you deliver on both fronts, and so will I.”
“What are these fronts?” Poirot looked agitated. He hated not being able to understand things. “What is it, precisely, that you wish me to deliver?”
“Have I not explained it all quite thoroughly?” said Mother. “Task number one: spend Christmas at Frelly with poor Arnold. Nothing would give him greater joy—and you have so many more Christmases to look forward to, Monsieur Poirot. He does not. Don’t spoil his very last one.”
“Mother, that is a monstrously unfair—”
“I have already told Vivienne that you have agreed to the plan,” Mother barreled on. “She will be busy preparingArnold for a wonderful surprise later today: the arrival of the most perfect Christmas guest!”
“Madame, how many times must I tell you that I cannot stay as long as—”
“And number two: solve the murder of Stanley Niven, so that the ne’er-do-well who killed him can be hauled off to the gallows—no longer a danger to Arnold or anyone else at St. Walstan’s. Then Vivienne will have nothing to fear. She will know that when Arnold moves into his room at the hospital, he will be safe from the killer.” Mother had it all neatly worked out. “He must be deprived—by you, Monsieur Poirot—of the treat of solving Stanley Niven’s murder. As compensation, he will get a different treat: spending his last Christmas at Frelly with you as his guest.”
