“Why are you so heated in the collar, monsieur? If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear.”
The door opened again and Enid and Terence Surtees walked in. I nearly gasped when I saw that they were both smiling. And there was none of Enid’s usual slow trudging—quite the opposite. She trotted into the library in a manner that was positively sprightly.
“Monsieur and Madame Surtees, sit down at the table, please,” said Poirot. He was evidently determined that none of them should get comfortable in an armchair. I wanted very much to sit in one myself—my body and brain both ached from the taxing events of the past few days—but I felt obliged to participate in the communal discomfort, so I too sat on a hard chair at the table.
Poirot walked around the room as he spoke. “May I ask if you have recently received some good news, madame?” he asked Enid Surtees. “You seem in a merry humor, in spite of the recent murder in your home of your dear friend Arnold Laurier.”
“I am not sure about the ‘dear friend’ part,” she said,her smile wavering a little. “He was our master and we were his supposed-to-be-grateful servants. Frelly has never felt like our home, Monsieur Poirot, even though we live here.”
“That is unfair, Enid,” said her husband. “Arnold was our friend. He loved us and tried to help us, always. And we readily agreed to the arrangement. Our unhappiness was not Arnold’s fault.”
Enid nodded. “Terence is quite right,” she told Poirot. “In our moment of joy, I suppose we should be magnanimous. Oh! You think we are...” She laughed. “No, no, not at all. We are not joyful on account of Arnold’s death, Monsieur Poirot. A murder at Frelly? That is shocking, and poor Arnold, of course... Though one must retain a sense of proportion. He was, after all, about to die imminently—and the terrible pain of a long illness is surely worse than a quick death, I would have thought. And now that Arnold is gone, I might get some grandchildren!” Enid beamed, eyes sparkling.
“We should explain, dear, or Monsieur Poirot will think we are quite mad,” said Terence. “We are happy because, by some miracle, our daughters no longer hate each other. It happened only this morning: a huge transformation.”
“Thank the Lord!” Enid pressed the palms of her hands together. “Terence found them in the sitting room earlier with their arms around each other. It is my dream come true at last.”
Terence nodded eagerly. “They were both in tears, Monsieur Poirot, and both apologizing for their role in thehorrible feud that has made them enemies for so long. I told Enid: it was as if they had just found each other again after being forcibly kept apart for years. Which is strange, when you come to think of it, because nothing but their own determination to hate one another was preventing them from being friends. I do worry about the boys, though,” he added a moment later, with a glance at his wife.
“I am worried about nothing!” Enid threw up her hands. “I feel as if I will never,couldnever, fret about anything again. My wish has been granted. I don’t even mind too much about grandchildren now—though of course it would be lovely to have at least one from each daughter.”
“But dear, the boys did not look happy,” said Terence.
“If you mean Douglas and Jonathan Laurier, that might be because their father has just been murdered,” I said.
“Do not worry, dear,” said Enid. “The two silly boys can continue to dislike each other if they wish, but our girls will never be estranged again. The love that was always there between them has proved itself stronger than any petty grudge. That is a blessing that the murder of Arnold has bestowed upon us—unfortunate though it is in its own right, of course. And I predict that the boys, in time, will fall into line. It is always the women who decide these things, Monsieur Poirot. Jonathan and Douglas will see that Maddie and Janet want to be friends now, and they will jolly well fall into line.”
As Enid spoke, I was watching Felix Rawcliffe. He looked distinctly unhappy, hunched over the table and apparently unable to keep his legs still. Was I being fanciful, or wasguilt the emotion that consumed him? That, certainly, was my impression.
“How, precisely, did Arnold Laurier’s murder end the rift between your daughters?” Poirot asked Terence Surtees.
“Is the explanation not obvious? They were both very upset by it. It impressed upon them a horrible truth: that it is possible to lose a family member with no warning, in the most brutal way,” said Surtees. “Maddie and Janet both adored Arnold. The loss of him, in combination with their grief and shock, brought them to their senses.”
“They realized what I have always known,” said Enid. “Love is life and hate is death. I have hated for so long, and felt dead inside, but now I am so full of love, I might burst.”
“Madame, you said something a moment ago that made no sense to me. Why should the death of Arnold Laurier mean that you are more likely to have a grandchild?”
“Without the stresses and strains of their ridiculous feud, why should either of my girls be unable to conceive a child?”
“There is still the sickly Laurier family constitution to consider,” her husband reminded her. “Arnold did not come from healthy stock. Wealthy, yes—but not hardy.”
“But, dear, look at Douglas and Jonathan. Look, indeed, at Maddie and Janet—none of them is the sickly type at all, and that should not surprise you. If three quarters of the genes passed down are strong-as-an-ox genes, then surely we will have many grandchildren.”
“Where were you on the afternoon of 8 September,madame? Specifically, between two and three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“8 September?” Enid frowned. “I don’t see how you expect me to remember that far back, but I dare say I was in the kitchen.”
“He is talking about the day Stanley Niven was murdered,” said her husband. “You were indeed in the kitchen, dear.”
“How do you know that, Monsieur Surtees?” said Poirot. “Were you also in the kitchen between two and three?”
“No. I was in the drawing room all afternoon that day. So was Felix—weren’t you, Felix? We played chess, then read our books.”
“Is that true, Monsieur Rawcliffe?” said Poirot.
“I... I...” the curate stammered. “I’m sorry, what did you ask me?”
Poirot repeated the question.
